


Drowning Lessons

by sailorstkwrning



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Mindless Self Indulgence, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Sounds
Genre: Bandom Big Bang, Gen, slavefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorstkwrning/pseuds/sailorstkwrning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Warnings: Indentured servants at a time when indentured servitude was essentially slavery; physical restraint (boys briefly in a bridle and also a cage); mention of past physical abuse; implied past sexual trauma; an attempt to exchange sex for protection/favors; voluntary cross-dressing; and a non-fatal duel.</p>
<p>Beta: Egelantier, ArsenicJade , Corvide, and also my sister. Any remaining mistakes, gross historical inaccuracies, or flagrant ridiculousness are entirely my fault.</p>
<p>Other notes: This story would not exist without Egelantier and ArsenicJade; it began life as chat-fic passed between us in email over the course of a year, which they have graciously allowed me to expand and contract, prune and flesh out, to make what you are about to read today. This story also owes a considerable and significant debt to the work of Patrick O'Brian; most notably, the trope of house-as-ship originates with him.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Drowning Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Indentured servants at a time when indentured servitude was essentially slavery; physical restraint (boys briefly in a bridle and also a cage); mention of past physical abuse; implied past sexual trauma; an attempt to exchange sex for protection/favors; voluntary cross-dressing; and a non-fatal duel.
> 
> Beta: Egelantier, ArsenicJade , Corvide, and also my sister. Any remaining mistakes, gross historical inaccuracies, or flagrant ridiculousness are entirely my fault.
> 
> Other notes: This story would not exist without Egelantier and ArsenicJade; it began life as chat-fic passed between us in email over the course of a year, which they have graciously allowed me to expand and contract, prune and flesh out, to make what you are about to read today. This story also owes a considerable and significant debt to the work of Patrick O'Brian; most notably, the trope of house-as-ship originates with him.

"Set us a course, Mr. Bryar," Mikey said, raising his voice to be heard over the chatter of the street.

Bryar made a thoughtful noise, then walked over to a fruit stand and bought an apple to eat as they ambled through the market. Mikey took a sip of warm whisky from his flask and followed him, hanging back as if he were a servant. It was a cold, wet day, and the mood of the street was oddly uneasy. Bryar paused a couple of times, once for steaming hot chicken pasties, again for a bag of sewing trifles and a couple of lengths of linen. They were on their way back to the inn and their waiting coach when Bryar's face hardened abruptly and he veered towards the well at the center of the market, where a crowd of rough men had gathered.

Mikey noted several loathsomely familiar faces before the crowd shifted, and he saw what must have unsettled the market and caught Bryar's eye: a sale circle behind a hunched figure. Even from a distance Mikey could see that the men on display were the scarred and probably scrofulous dregs of someone's breaking yard, and would probably as soon commit murder as spit. Most of them were slumped in their chains, but one was standing as rigidly straight as his shackles and bridle would allow. 

Bryar went directly to the one with the bridle, while Mikey skirted around the edges of the circle, looking more carefully at the other men. 

"Who'll give me five," the tout called out, yanking on the lead so that the bridled man – boy, really, and a skinny, filthy, injured boy, at that – stumbled forward. 

"He has articles?" Bryar asked, silencing the hoots and catcalls of the others.

"Of course," the tout said, his eyes widening with mock outrage. "They all do, I'm a law-abiding businessman."

Bryar's face didn't move. The tout pulled a grubby sheaf of paper out of his jacket and handed it to Bryar, who glanced at it briefly before he tucked it under his arm. He glanced briefly at Mikey, one eyebrow raised. When Mikey shook his head, Bryar carefully extracted just five gold pieces from his purse.

The tout was good, Mikey had to give him that much; when Bryar dropped the coins in his hand, shock flickered only briefly across his face, and was soon replaced with the solicitous pleasure of someone who has found a fool eager to part with money.

Mikey kept his eyes on the boy while Bryar and the tout fussed around getting the chains off him. He was sunburned under his crust of filth, and his eyes were blank and empty. At least one of his shoulders was out of its socket. 

"You'll want to leave the bridle on," the tout murmured, grabbing Bryar's sleeve with filthy bandaged hand as Bryar reached for the buckles. "He bites." 

Bryar didn't reply, just tugged his arm loose and carefully eased the bridle off the boy. That, finally, got a reaction: the boy blinked a couple of times, then turned his head and spit on the ground, only narrowly missing the tout's shoes.

The tout squawked his outrage, but subsided rapidly under the weight of Bryar's glare. Mikey waited until they were a few steps away before he offered the boy a sip from his flask. The boy took it, wincing a little when the whisky burned his throat. 

"Thank you, Master," he said, so softly it was almost a whisper, and Mikey flinched.

"That is Mr. Way," Bryar said, equally as quietly, and Mikey saw Smith's eyes widen in recognition. "And I am Mr. Bryar. Your papers say your name is Spencer Smith, is that right?"

"Yes, Ma – Mr. Bryar," Spencer said.

"We're going to fix your shoulder now, Mr. Smith," Bryar said, leading them into the lee of a building, away from the main throng. "Mr. Way, hold him, please."

Mikey did as he was bid, and a few moments later Smith slumped against him breathing raggedly. Mikey patted his back awkwardly and the boy jerked away then went still, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Mikey handed him the flask again and he took another, longer drink.

"Thank you very much, sir, " Smith said, as he handed it back. 

Meanwhile, Bryar had unwound his scarf from his neck, and fashioned it into a rough sling for Smith's arm. Mikey stepped back to allow him room to work, and took the chance to study the boy more closely. Despite the sunburn and layer of grime, he didn't have the look of a street urchin, and there was a certain amount of wary intelligence in his eyes. 

Mikey opened his mouth to ask _What did you do to be put in with those men?_ , but before he could get the words out, Bryar produced both another apple and a pasty from his pocket and handed them to Smith. The boy ate them quickly, neatly and with ill-disguised hunger. A few passers-by stopped to murmur and stare. Mikey tilted his head towards the inn and set off at a brisk pace. Bob and the boy followed him in silence.

The carriage was waiting for them when they arrived. Bryar climbed up into his usual place next to the Conrad, the driver, and Mikey helped Smith into the inner compartment. Smith succumbed to sleep before they were even through the town gates, and between the whisky and the horses' easy gait, Mikey soon followed him.

They arrived home just as the sun was setting. Bryar took charge of Smith, and directing the unloading of the carriage. Mikey left him to it, and climbed the stairs to his brother's study. He found Gerard at his desk, surrounded by balled up pieces of foolscap and covered in ink. 

Mikey cleared his throat softly. Gerard raised his head, and Mikey watched as irritation at being interrupted was rapidly replaced by pleasure.

"What's the manifest?" Gerard asked, sprinkling sand over his drawing.

"One," Mikey said, settling down in a chair and extracting a cheroot from his pocket. "A boy."

Gerard frowned and set down his quill.

"He was in with the breakers," Mikey explained, lighting the cheroot. "And injured."

Gerard's face darkened some more, but not, Mikey knew, because of any anger at him.

"Bryar has done what he can, but I'll have McCoy check him over tomorrow. And I'll send a note to Armstrong to let him know the _Revenge_ can still sail on the first tide." Mikey said, filling his lungs with sweet smoke. Gerard settled back in his chair.

"The boy has no family?" Gerard asked, a tinge of puzzlement in his voice.

Mikey shrugged one shoulder. "Bryar has his papers."

Gerard made a thoughtful noise, and Mikey took another deep drag on his cheroot. 

Eventually Gerard bent his head to his work once more. Mikey finished his cheroot and quietly showed himself out.

**

Spencer woke up slowly, tugged towards consciousness by the twin puzzlements of the soft bed he was lying in and the smell of frying bacon. He inventoried his hurts before he opened his eyes. His shoulder was still sore and throbbing, but not as awfully as it had been, which was puzzling until he remembered Ma – Mr. Bryar had put it back in joint the night before.

That, in turn, reminded him his contract had been sold, again, and he was in a new household. And not just any new household: one of the mad Way brothers had bought him and he was at Wolfhame. He was almost sorry that so far it was not nearly as scary as all of the stories had promised it would be. 

Spencer had been expecting a dark, dingy castle with massive spider webs and bats and perhaps a flinty-eyed butler, and had instead been presented with a shambling but still stately manor home, and greeted by two men, one tall and quiet, the other short, excitable and heavily tattooed. Their names had slipped past him in the general tumult, but he could remember he had thought their faces seemed kind. And while Spencer had not spent very much time in Mr. Way's presence, even he had not seemed as fearsome as kitchen scuttlebut implied he should be.

A bell rang somewhere in the house and Spencer sat up slowly, clutching the bed linens until the room stopped spinning. He vaguely remembered Mr. Bryar helping him to get out of his filthy clothes the night before, but when he looked for them, they were gone, replaced by clean things. 

He struggled into them, somewhat hampered by the sling, though he felt he was mostly presentable at the end. The shirt was miles too big for him, and the trousers a little short; nonetheless he was grateful to be decently covered. Whoever had taken his clothes had left his boots; he slipped them on and followed his nose to the kitchen.

**

"The new boy is at the door, sir," Iero said, his voice pitched low, and Ray turned from his baking tray to consider the newcomer.

It had been too dark, and the scene too chaotic, for Ray to get a good look at him the night before. In daylight the boy was tall, fair though ruddy with sunburn, and well formed, if a little thin and hollow around the eyes. And as Mr. Bryar had warned them earlier, he had one arm in a sling. He was studying the kitchen intently, but when he felt Ray's eyes on him he dropped his gaze to the floor and seemed to try and make himself smaller.

"Good morning, Mr. Smith," Ray said, wiping his hands on his breeches. 

"Good morning, sir," the new boy said, tugging anxiously at his shirt with his free hand. Ray made a mental note to see if better-fitting clothes could be found for him.

"I'm Mr. Toro," Ray reminded him. They had already been introduced, but the boy had been half dead with exhaustion and Ray doubted he remembered. "And the scoundrel making off with my scones is Mr. Iero. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please," Smith said. Ray noticed that he hung back a moment longer before sitting down at the table, and wondered what his previous house had been like.

"You've met with the governor?" Ray asked as he put the kettle on.

"Not yet, sir," Smith said, and shifted as if he might get up.

"Be at ease, the Captain will send someone for you when you're wanted," Iero said, grabbing another scone.

Smith settled, accepting a scone when Iero offered him one. Ray occupied himself with the tea things, and stole only the occasional glance out of the corner of his eye. He noted that the boy ate quickly and efficiently, and had – perhaps unknowingly – sheltered his breakfast in the crook of his free arm between bites, as if he feared it might be taken from him. Ray met Iero's eyes over the top of Smith's bent head, and they exchanged a grim look. 

Smith was on his fourth scone – it had been a long time since they had taken in anyone new, and Ray had almost forgotten how much the young ones could eat – when Bryar stuck his head around the door and informed them that Mr. Way would be pleased to receive Mr. Smith in his study at his earliest convenience.

"Mr. Way?" Iero repeated, lowering his paring knife and looking up from his potatoes with a frown.

"Aye, and then the gov'nor will see him afterwards," Bryar said.

Meanwhile, Smith looked like he might soon choke on his last bite of scone; Ray nudged his tea cup towards him and watched while he took a drink. Then both he and Iero stayed quiet as Smith untangled himself from the table and followed Bryar out of the room.

 

**

Gerard was composing a sonnet when Mikey arrived with his latest acquisition. The boy looked to be in the middle of his growth spurt, and gawky with it. 

"Captain Way, may I present Spencer Smith," Mikey said as he handed over the boy's papers.

"You may sit down, Mr. Smith," Gerard said, unfolding the documents in order to study them.

"Thank you, sir," Smith said, his voice soft but clear.

Gerard read the papers carefully – it seemed as if Mr. Smith had at one time been apprenticed to a blacksmith; the original signatory's name had been crossed out and changed so often it was nothing but inky blur, but the terms were, as usual, ruinous and cruel - then looked up. The boy was perched on the edge of Gerard's second best chair in an attitude of submission, his hands folded neatly in his lap. 

"Do you have any family, Mr. Smith?" He tried to make his tone gentle; he suspected he already knew the answer. No-one with resources, any resources at all, would have submitted themselves to the terms of the agreement.

"My parents and sisters emigrated to the colonies several years back," Smith said, raising his head. "Some day I hope to join them."

Gerard met Mikey's eyes briefly, then looked back at the boy. "You preferred to stay here, rather than travel with them?"

"I was well settled at the forge at the time, and my parents thought the girls might have better prospects abroad," Smith said, his mouth twisting in a wry smile. "By the time the smith died, they were well away, and I took whatever work I could to get by."

Gerard winced in understanding, picked up his quill, and attended to the document.

"There," he said, when he was finished. "Your debt is cancelled. I can offer you passage to the colonies on the _Black Parade_ , whenever she next sails, or a place can be found for you here. Or if you have other friends, I should be pleased to contact them on your behalf."

"Passage," Smith repeated, the blankness of his expression replaced by pure bafflement.

"That was the original consideration, was it not?" Gerard asked, flipping the documents over. 

"Yes, sir," Smith said, his voice still sounding like it was coming from a long ways away.

"I would warn you against seeking your fortune on the public roads," Gerard said. "The bailiffs are sharp-eyed and the press is quite active in these parts, and you may find yourself imprisoned for vagrancy or at sea and subject to His Majesty's will."

The boy blinked at him some more, and Gerard attempted a reassuring smile. When the boy still did not speak, Gerard decided to take his silence as an indication that he would be remaining at Wolfhame for the forseeable future.

"I shall presume you recognize my name?" Gerard said glancing briefly at his brother. 

"Yes, sir," Smith said, coughing a little bit. "I have only read a small part of your book, but – I have heard stories."

Mikey made an undignified noise and Gerard glared at him briefly. "Really? What kind of tales go before me?"

Smith's face went blank, and Gerard could see he was struggling for tact. Behind him, Mikey's eyebrows were ascending towards his hairline. Gerard scowled at his brother and then softened his expression for Smith's benefit.

"Wild ones," the boy said, slowly. "Of burning ships and demons and –"

"We did fire several ships to the waterline," Gerard agreed, his grin broadening at the memory. "Though no demons were in attendance. In any case, we are reformed characters now, are we not, Mr. Way?"

"We are," Mikey agreed, his lips twitching at the corners. "Respectable businessmen, with philanthropic and artistic interests."

Smith's face smoothed over again as he digested that information. Gerard set his quill down and waited.

"What would you have me do here, Master?" Smith asked.

"Captain," Gerard repeated, sharpening his tone for emphasis but smiling to ease the sting. "First you should recover your strength. I shall conference with Mr. Way and Mr. Toro regarding the needs of the household. Where did you work, after the smithy?"

"I was a laborer - a stagehand," Smith said. His voice was steady, but Gerard could see his hands clenching into anxious fists.

"A stagehand, you say?" Gerard looked up in time to see the boy nod. "What theater were you at?

"I've been at several, sir," the boy said. "The Freya most recently."

"The Freya," Gerard repeated, noting the way the boy flinched. The name was familiar; he vaguely remembered it being the papers. "Well, if my brother and I are successful in our next endeavor it may be you could pursue that line of work again. In the meantime, you are on light duty, and can report to Mr. Toro. You have the liberty of the house and grounds. Good afternoon, Mr. Smith."

"Thank you, Captain," Smith said, then rose – perhaps a hair unsteadily – and left the room.

**

"Do you think you could use a paring knife?" Toro asked, his eyebrows knit into a thoughtful frown.

"Yes, sir," Spencer said, easing his arm out of the sling, oddly comforted by the familiar prospect of work.

His shoulder ached, but bearably; meanwhile, his debt had only been cancelled for half an hour and his head was still spinning.

"Well, then you can see to these," Toro decided, and shifted a basket of apples onto the table.

"Thank you, sir," Spencer murmured, taking the knife when Iero held it out to him.

"And don't let Mr. Iero steal more than a quarter of what you peel," Toro said, mock-sternly.

"I get hungry," Iero protested, playing at indignance and stealing an apple off the top of the pile at the same time. "And I have a wooden leg to keep it all in!"

"Only half," Toro reminded him, and stole an apple of his own. "Now come and help me spit the hens."

"You're a cruel one and no mistake," Iero said, but he was laughing as he followed Toro over to the fireplace.

Spencer waited until they were well away to sit down. The captain's words echoed in his ears. _Your debt is cancelled._ It seemed impossible. The warm kitchen and Iero's laughter seemed impossible too, though the periodic scrape of the sharp blade of the paring knife against his fingers suggested it was real. 

At one point he put extra pressure on the knife, enough to draw break the skin, just to see if he would wake up back in the breaker yard, or perhaps in a cage somewhere. All he got for his trouble was a sore knuckle. He sucked on it briefly, the bright copper taste of the blood convincing him he was awake, and tried to wrap his head around his new reality.

When the basket of apples was finished, Toro gave him a basket of potatoes and carrots to work on. Later, Iero flopped down across from him and joined in the peeling. Spencer kept his head down and listened to Iero and Toro trade bawdy stories. He could plan his next move later. For now it would be useful to find out more about the household.

**

"Eight of clubs?" Bryar asked, squinting at his cards. 

"Fish for it," Mikey replied, and took a sip of his grog.

"Sea devil," Bryar murmured, though without any heat, and took a card off the top of the deck. 

Bryar sighed heavily when he looked at his prize, and Mikey fanned his cards out in his hand to study them. He was considering his strategy when Bryar tapped his wrist with his fingers.

Mikey glanced up, startled and a little annoyed, and Bryar put one finger to his lips then looked at the ceiling. Mikey arched an eyebrow at him, but looked up. After a moment he heard it: the creak of footsteps, too heavy to be his brother, too light to be Toro, and definitely two footed, which excluded Iero, and, most damning, headed the wrong way for the bathroom. 

Mikey grabbed his mug and stood up as silently as possible, then ducked into the corridor. Smith was quiet on the stairs – Mikey's eyes widened, impressed; he had only been among them for three days, but clearly the boy had been paying enough attention to identify the creaky steps – and when he didn't turn towards the kitchen, Mikey's theory blossomed into certainty.

"Mr. Smith," he called out. "If you are seeking a snack, you have strayed off course, the kitchen is this way."

The boy froze, then turned to look at him. Even in the dim light Mikey could see he was pale with terror.

"The kettle is still warm," Mikey continued, making his tone as friendly as possible. "Mr. Bryar and I would be pleased if you would join us."

Smith managed a nod and followed him. Mikey waved him into a seat next to Bryar, and made them all fresh cups of tea. Bryar took his black, as he always did; Smith did the same, though Mikey suspected that was born of fear and not preference.

"Thank you, sir," Smith whispered, and Mikey tilted his head in acknowledgement.

"Do the dogs disturb your rest?" Mikey asked, clearing away the cards.

Smith raised his head, and met Mikey's eyes. His gaze was startling direct, and Mikey met it. He could see alarm there, but also a glimmer of calculating intelligence.

"No, sir," Smith said after a moment. "I was wakeful on my own account."

Mikey made a sympathetic noise, and shuffled the deck. "Perhaps you would care to join Mr. Bryar and I at cards? I find that sometimes the exercise attracts Morpheus."

Smith hid his face in his teacup for a moment before nodding his assent.

"If we had a fourth we could play bridge, but, since the household is at rest, could I interest you in a game of Faro, gentlemen?" Mikey asked, already shuffling the deck.

Bryar hummed his agreement, and when Smith made no argument, Mikey dealt the cards. For now he was content that the boy was safe in the house; he could investigate the reason Smith had tried to run away at another time.

**

The next evening, Spencer waited for the others to get sunk in their card game before he slipped away to the barn to wash, the cold water rattling his bones but steeling his resolve. Then he grabbed a candle and a brush, as if he were going to tend to coats, and boldly walked into Captain Way's room. He did actually brush the coats, since it needed to be done; then he stripped quickly, piled his folded clothes neatly by the bed, and knelt down to wait. 

The room was warm, and Spencer had been working in the kitchen all day; later Spencer would convince himself that that was why he failed to notice the second set of footsteps on the stairs. But at the point Captain Way walked through the door with his brother at his heels, Spencer was both surprised and mortified.

Captain Way stared at him for a minute, his mouth forming a round, shocked O. Before Spencer could even stammer out an apology, Mr. Way dodged around his brother, pulled a blanket from the bed, wrapped it around Spencer, and stepped back.

Spencer wasn't sure what to do. Mr. Way wasn't part of the plan. Spencer had heard the tales of the Captain's depravity, but even still he doubted the man's disdain for common customs extended to swiving a servant in front of his brother. 

Captain Way started talking, but his voice was shrill, and Spencer's head was too sore from hours of anxiety and uncertainty to absorb anything he was saying. 

"Mr. Smith, what are you doing here?" Mr. Way asked, quieting his brother with a hand   
on his arm.

Spencer raised his head slowly, painfully aware that his eyes and face are both burning with embarrassment. He could not bring himself to say the words, but he could see from their faces that he did not need to.

"But why, why would you come here, like this?" the Captain stammered. There were two spots of color high on his cheeks.

"To beg forgiveness," Spencer said, and swallowed carefully. "And a favor."

Captain Way made a baffled noise, but Mr. Way sighed heavily, and Spencer looked to him. 

"We will leave you to dress," Mr. Way said. "If you will excuse us, Mr. Smith, we'll discuss this when we return." 

And then they were gone, though Spencer could hear the Captain's voice rising and falling as they went down the stairs. He scrambled into his clothes and knelt down on the floor. Mainly, he hoped he would survive whatever punishment they chose to mete out.

**

"Forgiveness for what?" Gerard asked, as soon as Mikey closed the door behind them. "He's barely been here a week and I have not seen him more than twice, and his conduct has not been offensive on either occasion."

"He tried to desert last night," Mikey explained, moving quickly down the stairs and into the kitchen. "I encountered him on the stairs and foiled him."

Gerard's narrowed his eyes at his brother's back and sat down at the table. "Why was I not informed?"

"I wished to make my own enquiries," Mikey said, his expression deceptively mild. "I intended to do it this morning, and was myself foiled by Mr. Gokey's uncanny ability to demand complicated printing jobs at the very last moment."

"Christ's bones," Gerard muttered into his elbows, then sat up and scrubbed at his face, stretching his fingers out to try to shake off the adrenaline. 

Mikey offered him a glass of water and he took it, then drank slowly while Mikey put the kettle on.

"Where did you find him again?" Gerard asked. 

"Hangman's Hill," Mikey said, decanting milk into a small pitcher. "Oxblood and Fife's stall."

"Fuck," Gerard said, barely audible over the whistle of the kettle. "I thought we shut them down."

"We did," Mikey said, lifting the tray. "Oxblood got out of prison and they're back."

Gerard stood up and straightened his clothes, steeling himself for the coming interview. 

Mikey led the way up the stairs and nudged the door open with his knee. Spencer was dressed, but still kneeling on the floor. Somehow he looked even younger with clothes on, drowning as he was in Bryar's castoffs. He raised his head when they came in the room, but only briefly. Gerard could see he had a white-knuckle grip on his knees.

"Get up, please, Mr. Smith. You may sit on my sea trunk, if you like," Gerard said, gesturing towards the end of the bed, and the boy hastened to obey.

Mikey set the tray down on the table and poured out three cups of tea. Gerard settled himself in the massive armchair he inherited from his grandfather and tried to look a dignified as possible. 

"I ran away six times," Mikey said, softly, moving the tea things to the table, and both Gerard and Spencer turned to look at him, wide-eyed with surprise. 

Mikey handed Spencer a cup of tea and he took it, pure bafflement in his face. 

"You seem confused, Mr. Smith," Mikey said. "Did the tale-tellers not mention my sordid past? They certainly are keen to remind me of it at every opportunity."

Spencer's bafflement turned to a mixture of alarm and shame. Gerard racked his brains for some way to defuse the situation, and then Mikey took pity on him.

"As you may remember, when my brother was captured, the Dey of Algiers demanded a ransom, which of course His Majesty refused to pay," Mikey explained, lowering himself into another nearby chair. "The family was able to scrape together about half the sum needed, but could not get the rest. So I sold myself into service for a year to – a gentleman."

Mikey paused, and Gerard took a mouthful of tea. He did not like to think how he had repaid his brothers' sacrifice. Rather than coming home upon his release, he had fallen into drunken debauchery in all of the ports of the Caribbean. It had taken a hurricane destroying the hovel he was living in to finally wash him home to England.

"It was done quietly at the time, of course," Mikey continued. "It was advantageous to both of our families to keep the arrangement out of public knowledge. But at the end of the year he refused to release me. Publicizing my plight would reveal the whole scheme and shame us all, so I ran away."

Gerard drank more tea.

"The first five times Master caught me," Mikey said, Spencer's eyes grew impossibly wider. "The sixth time I made it all the way to town before I caught the eye of a lady."

"But -" Gerard began, because this was not a story he had heard before. Or at least, not told quite this way. Mikey didn't lie. He did sometimes leave things out.

"She and I had a meeting of the minds," Mikey continued. "She had need of a bodyguard, I had need of passage over the mountains."

Gerard sagged back into his chair, shaky all over again. Over the mountains, across the moors, to the edge of the sea, where Gerard had been drowning in alcohol and his own filth. 

"Eventually the other party shared our secret - that was part of why my brother and I turned to privateering, to make the appearance of earning money he falsely claimed he was owed while still being out of his reach. But enough of my misspent youth. Where is it you need to go, Mr. Smith?" Mikey asked, balancing his tea cup on his knee.

There was a long silence. Gerard could see the boy was considering all of his options.

"Salem's Pocket," Spencer finally said. "Please, I need to get to Salem's Pocket. I - I have to - please -"

Gerard leaned forward; he knew that name, and not for any good reasons. Mikey made a thoughtful noise and drank some of his tea. 

"That's miles from here. What –" Mikey paused, considering, "- or should I say, who, is in Salem's Pocket?"

Spencer inhaled sharply and Mikey arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

"My – friend Ryan, my particular friend," Spencer said. "We – that's where I was last, at the theater –"

"The Freya," Gerard cut in. "I think I remember that it failed quite spectacularly last fall."

"Yes," Spencer murmured, taking a deep breath. "Mr. Hill – he was the owner – he had invested poorly, and then a ship sank, and – well, we thought we might salvage what we could after the bailiffs were done and make a go of being a traveling troupe, all of us."

Clearly not finished, Spencer paused to fortify himself with more tea. Gerard took another drink himself and poked at his memory for more details. He had a vague feeling it had been quite a tragic story – a consumptive daughter in the mix somewhere, perhaps. He knew he had followed it quite avidly in the papers until more pressing matters had demanded his attention.

"We were just starting to get organized when Mr. Hill sent a note that a charitable gentleman, a Mr. Korse, was wanting to start a private company," Spencer continued. "In fact he'd asked about taking all of us on. He was wanting to put on plays to raise funds for his charitable work."

"Korse," Mikey repeated, setting his teacup down on the table with a faint clink, and Gerard settled his own cup next to it. Suddenly a few things from last fall made more sense. Clearly he had not been reading the papers closely enough, if he had missed Korse's name in the proceedings.

"You know the name, sir?" Spencer asked, his eyes widening a fraction.

"Yes," Mikey, his voice flat and grim. "And to call his nature charitable is a grotesque lie. And then what happened?"

"Well, Ryan and I didn't have anywhere else to go, most of the lads didn't, so we all signed on, and –" Spencer paused again. "Korse was – he had – rare taste. Very – old fashioned. He liked a lot of blood and thunder."

"He was cruel," Mikey said, more a statement than a question, and Spencer nodded jerkily.

"It wasn't so bad, for me, I mean, I – I was mainly in the wings – but Ryan had been our best Ophelia, and Korse liked him as the Duchess of Malfi as well," Spencer said, fixing his gaze on his knees. "And for his own more private entertainments."

Gerared swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat. "You escaped?"

Spencer made a noise that was almost amused. "Korse was enthusiastic about punishing stagehands for mistakes, and Ryan and a few of the other actors tried to strike, to protect us. Korse ordered us used as cannon fodder. I was at the back, and so was knocked out rather than killed. He dumped the bodies and sold the rest of us on. After that - " Spencer shrugged one shoulder, then fell silent.

Mikey nodded, a tense, tight movement, then stood up. "I'll only trouble you for a full description of your friend before you find your own bed."

Gerard could see relief in the boy's eyes as he obeyed, as well as the protest, and the questions, forming and faltering his expression.

"We've had dealings with Mr. Korse before," Gerard said, when Spencer fell silent. "We didn't realize he'd become a patron of the arts."

"In fact we thought we'd left him to rot in a Nassau jail," Mikey said.

"He's a pirate too?" Spencer said, his expression suggesting that perhaps this news explained much of his experience.

"We were privateers," Gerard corrected him, gently but firmly. "But no, he was not a pirate. We would have just hung him from the yardarm of the Revenge if that were the case. He is – or at least was – a Navy man, so we had to turn him over to the governor."

"What – what was his offense?" Spencer asked, now as wide-eyed as a child being told an adventure story.

"Uncommon cruelty," Mikey murmured. "He was quick with the cat and stingy with provisions, except when it came to his own table, and - well, he was no gentleman. His crew endured until he shot both of the cabin boys in cold blood, and could not account for their crime."

Spencer inhaled sharply. Gerard exchanged a brief glance with Mikey, who nodded at him to finish the story.

"We were resident in his brig at the time," Gerard explained. "It came to a fight - one of the sailors freed us, in order to borrow our strength - and, well, it concluded with him in irons and myself bringing the ship into port."

" _That's_ not in the book," Spencer said, then blushed furiously.

"The governor demanded our discretion – our silence - on the subject as a condition of our release," Mikey said, smiling grimly. "We were given to understand that his wife had a family connection with Korse, which may have affected his thinking."

"But –wouldn't the sailors carry the tale?" Spencer asked, his brows knitting into a frown.

"Perhaps, but likely only as far as the waterfront bars," Mikey said, shaking his arms out. "So far none have committed pen to paper. At any rate, we'll start making inquiries in the morning. Good night, Mr. Smith."

"Good night, sir – Captain," Spencer murmured, standing up slowly and executing a rough bow before seeing himself out.

**

Spencer made his way back to his room slowly, dizzy with relief and sick with worry in about the same measure, the Ways' words swirling in his head. He crawled into bed and curled around the pillow – he didn't miss the chaos of the breakers yard, but he still felt strange, all alone in the room, and the bed – and slept in spite of himself. 

The next day he was sure it was a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, but then Mr. Way came to the kitchen during breakfast and asked him a few mild questions about Korse's social habits, his expression darkening as Spencer answered. Afterwards Bryar and Toro vanished for most of the day, leaving Spencer and Iero alone to peel a small mountain of carrots and potatoes. Spencer stabbed his own fingers several times in his distraction, but Iero was polite enough not to comment.

**

Three days later, a grubby, crumpled and heavily folded note appeared next to Gerard's plate at breakfast. _Captain Shit-for-Brains_ was scrawled messily on the back flap. Gerard stabbed it with his fork and glanced at Mikey for an explanation.

"McCracken," Mikey said, buttering his toast. "I think. I cannot say for certain, since I found it pinned to Snake Child's bridle this morning."

Gerard suppressed a sigh, freed the note, and unfolded it carefully. _Our Lady of Sorrows Hospital, Bell Town_ , was scrawled on the inside in distinctive and familiar handwriting. 

"McCracken," Gerard confirmed, refolding the note. "He suggests an almshouse that is, I think, within a few hours ride."

Mikey made a thoughtful noise, and took a deep drink from his teacup, and then the only sounds were those of hasty eating. One of Iero's terriers – Gerard couldn't tell if it was Scylla or Charbydis – stuck a cold nose against Gerard's ankle and he dropped a crust for her.

"Mr. Toro and Mr. Bryar, you'll come with us," Gerard said when they were finished, pushing himself out of his chair. "Mr. Iero, you have the ship."

"House," Mikey said, mildly, and Gerard dismissed him with a wave.

**

Ryan heard the lock clinking against the bars of the cage, and did not move. Partially because he couldn't, and partially because he didn't care what happened to him any more. The iron bars of the cage, once hated, had become almost pleasant, keeping the world away the way they did. The straw he was lying on was filthy and prickly, but still mostly dry, and his pervasive aches distracted him from frivolous concerns like temperature. He was, all things considered, perfectly content to die here.

Then someone or some thing jostled the cage, setting off a cascade of agony and provoking him into a token protest. He was vaguely surprised when he felt rough, unfamiliar fingers moving over his arms in slow, soothing motions. Perhaps Korse had given him away again. He was startled again when the cage creaked open, and bitter liquid passed over his lips, stinging at the cracks and tears.

It didn't taste like the other drugs, but Ryan still tried to spit it out. He also tried to convey, to the extent that he was able, that he would be good. But he couldn't remember exactly how to say anything. The next thing he tasted was cold, sweet water, which was so strange he spat it out as well; when they tried again, he managed to swallow it. 

Ryan wondered for the first time if he had died and not noticed. Heaven was a lot louder than he had thought it would be. He could hear people (angels?) talking, and they had oddly familiar accents. At least he hoped they were angels. He assumed they were good angels. He didn't think bad angels would have given him water. The cage rattled some more, and there were more hands on him, but they were still gentle hands. After that there was more water, and more bitter, somebody draped something heavy and cool over him, and he let oblivion pull him under.

**

Gerard kept a slow pace over well-traveled paths as they went home, hoping to ease the strain of travel on the boy. They arrived at Wolfhame just as dawn was breaking. Iero and Smith came spilling out of the front door almost as soon as the horses' noses passed through the main gate; Gerard assumed Iero must have been watching for them. He let Mikey and Toro and their precious cargo get ahead, and paused to watch the hubbub only briefly before nudging his mount towards the stables.

When his horse was settled, Gerard retreated to his study to rinse off the worst of the road dust and see if any urgent correspondence had arrived in the night. Some time later, Iero appeared with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. He was much quieter than usual, and leaning more heavily on his peg-leg; Gerard assumed the scene downstairs must be grim, and didn't keep him.

A couple of hours later Gerard was awakened from an accidental nap by the creaking of floorboards. He opened his eyes just as someone began tapping on his door. When he bade them enter, it was Travis McCoy, former ship's surgeon, who crossed the threshold, his shoulders hunched in order to fit his lanky frame under the ancient lintel. 

"Mr. McCoy," Gerard said, stifling a yawn. "What's the butcher's bill?"

"I don't expect Mr. Ross will last the night," McCoy said, lowering himself into a nearby chair. "I have given Mr. Smith a calming tonic."

"Thank you, Mr. McCoy," Gerard murmured, shifting forward to press his fingers against his eyes.

Perhaps rescuing the boy had been foolishness, but Gerard could not find it in his heart to regret it. If Ross did die, at least he would not do so friendless and alone in the filthy pit in which they had found him.

"Our old adversary has resurfaced," McCoy commented, clasping his heavily tattooed hands in his lap.

"Yes," Gerard grimaced, shaking himself into further wakefulness. "He's styled himself as a charitable gentlemen and a friend of the theater this time."

McCoy made a wry face, and then the bell above Gerard's desk began clanging noisily, and he rose in one rapid, graceful movement, excused himself, and departed. 

**

Ryan woke up because Spencer was talking nearby. Spencer was dead, so maybe Ryan had died. He tried to call out, or make some sort of move to get Spencer's attention, but his body still wouldn't cooperate. He still couldn't get his mouth to open. 

Then somehow Spencer was there, next to him, heavy and warm. Part of Ryan's brain filled in alive, but the rest of him glided past it. Maybe bodies were warm in heaven too. Ryan grabbed hold of one of Spencer's fingers and slept until the angels woke him to give him more water and rich, salty chicken broth. 

Ryan thought eating and drinking ought to be unnecessary in Heaven, but he was too tired to argue the point. He was also too tired to manage more than a couple of mouthfuls at a time, but the angels didn't seem put out, so he tried not to worry. 

Once Ryan woke because an angel was humming – the tune was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it - and then he discovered he could open his eyes. It turned out heaven was really dark and blurry. Spencer was asleep next to him, which was kind of awful and kind of a relief. Ryan squeezed Spencer's finger gently and lay quiet, listening to the angel, not sure if he should make a noise or not. He could see things moving in the shadows, but he wasn't scared. He thought they might be tiny angels. Korse had had a book on the subject; Ryan could remember the pictures. 

He was starting to drift off again when the angel stopped humming and came over to the bed to straighten their covers and give Ryan more of the bitter liquid. He opened his mouth obediently and swallowed without protest. The medicine tasted vile, but it muted the throbbing in his knee and hands. He was a bit disappointed, actually, that everything still hurt, even in Heaven. 

Though Ryan had started to wonder if maybe he (they) weren't in Heaven yet, but rather trapped in Purgatory. That maybe the angels were just waiting for him to beg Spencer's forgiveness, so they could both move on. He hoped that Spencer could forgive him, so that they could go together. He couldn't stand to have Spencer caged anymore, even here, in this dark, quiet place. 

He fell asleep composing his speech to Spencer.

**

"Will you be joining us for dinner tonight, Mr. Smith?" Mr. Iero asked, not looking up from where he was studying Ryan's chest, and the outlines of the doctors' careful stitches. "Toro's clootie dumpling is a rare treat."

Spencer hesitated – he didn't like to leave Ryan for long – but on the other hand he knew when an invitation was not an invitation. Iero was friendly enough, but it would not do to annoy him, or to offend the others by rejecting their company. 

"I will, thank you," he murmured, and was rewarded with a bright, quick smile.

"Six o'clock or face the consequences," Mr. Iero said as he left, the amused twist of his mouth easing the sting of the warning. 

The kitchen was almost full when Spencer came down, and the table was all but covered in dishes. Spencer nodded his hellos and took the only empty seat left, which was next to Mr. Iero.

That night, and the next several that followed, he kept quiet, content to stuff himself with hot food and wash it down with cold foamy beer. He was careful to save some of what he was given –small things, like chunks of bread and cheese, and pasties – which he wrapped up in an old but clean rag and secured under his bed. Spencer dipped into his reserves only occasionally; mostly he just liked knowing the food was there if he needed it.

Then one afternoon he heard the terriers barking in the hallway outside of Ryan's room. When he went to investigate, he found his tidy bundle in shreds, and Scylla making a meal of a lamb pasty while Charbydis gnawed on a hunk of stale bread.

"No," he yelled, not caring if he woke Ryan up. "Stop it. Bad _dogs_."

The dogs ignored him. Spencer shouted at them until they vanished down the corridor in a hail of clicking toenails, then knelt down to try and clean up the worst of the mess. 

He was almost done when he heard the familiar muffled thud of a wooden leg on carpet. Spencer staggered upwards just as Mr. Iero came around the corner, and forced himself to stand up straight and breathe normally.

"Am I right in suspecting that my ladies have behaved disgracefully?" Iero asked.

Spencer shook his head, because truly the dogs were blameless. He should have found a more secure hiding place for his reserves. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he could feel his face heating as Mr. Iero studied him and the remains of the mess on the floor. Part of him wondered if this indiscretion might finally provoke them into punishing him.

"The kitchen is always open to you, Mr. Smith," Iero said. "And I would be pleased to show you where Mr. Toro keeps the leftovers. Perhaps you can assist Mr. Bryar with reducing the frequency of the appearance of Potted Meat Surprise."

Spencer raised his head, to stunned to be embarrassed by any indiscretion that might be revealed by his face. Iero's grin broadened a fraction, revealing the edge of his gold tooth.

"Though when we are finished here, Mr. Toro requires our assistance with disposing of some extra pie," Iero said. "The top is apparently a shameful disgrace and not fit for the Captain's table."

With that he dropped down into a loose crouch and started to gather up the remains the food the dogs had destroyed. Spencer stared at the crown of his head for a while, then joined in the effort. When they finished Spencer looked in on Ryan; finding him still asleep, Spencer followed Iero to the kitchen.

**

Spencer took over Ryan's nursing as soon as Mr. McCoy and Mr. Way would let him, and carefully did not let his gaze linger long on Mr. Toro and Mr. Iero's worried, sympathetic expressions as they bustled in and out of the sickroom. Instead he brought his mending to Ryan's bedside – he would not repay the generosity of the household by shirking his duty – and spent his time alternating between tidying hems, repatriating all of Mr. Way's truant buttons, coaxing Ryan into swallowing water and thin chicken broth at regular intervals, and changing Ryan's multitudes of bandages. When Ryan wasn't thrashing and mumbling in his sleep, he was still as death and Spencer checked often to make sure he was still breathing. 

Eventually Mr. McCoy came to check Ryan himself; he sounded both pleased and surprised to report that Ryan was improving. Not long after the doctor went upstairs to talk with Captain Way, Ryan opened his eyes for a few moments, and seemed to see Spencer.

"I'm sorry for killing you," Ryan murmured, squeezing Spencer's fingers for emphasis.

"You didn't," Spencer whispered. "I'm alive. You're alive, Ryan."

"No," Ryan murmured, frowning the way he did when Spencer didn't understand a bit of stage business. "The cannon – you all fell. And died."

"No," Spencer countered, letting a little bit of steel slip into his voice. "I am not dead, and neither are you." He swallowed the _yet_ that was threatening to append itself to that statement.

"Cannon," Ryan muttered, his tone turning pettish. "Saw you fall. Don't be difficult, Spencer."

Spencer glared at him, irritation well-mixed with a few cautious tendrils of hope – he never thought he'd be so happy to hear Ryan being cranky with him – then picked up   
Ryan's good hand and pressed it to the pulse-point at his throat.

Ryan frowned, irritated at first but it gradually shifted into puzzlement, and Spencer released his hand. 

"We're alive," Spencer repeated, allowing himself a smile for the first time since he arrived at Wolfhame, and lay down next to Ryan.

"Cannon," Ryan muttered to himself, then rolled towards Spencer and fell back to sleep.

**

_The village girls will only speak in whispers, but they tell me he's (still) a bastard, and several of them have the bruises to prove it. Suarez reports the town fathers seem to be quite taken in – pleased to have a place for their prodigals to roost._

Mikey sighed and rubbed his eyes; Saporta's handwriting had only gotten worse with time, and he would insist on writing on tiny pieces of paper.

_And for all Korse's bleating about his tenderhearted weakness for the downtrodden, Mr. Ripley has made two unannounced calls on the matron, in search of haven for a relative, and been frostily turned away both times._

_She seems to be unmoved by his plaintive wailing about his most wayward and beloved sister. (Miss Victoria grows restive, and plans a bravura performance, should he ever melt the icy heart.) I suspect a quantity of gold may be needed to start the warming trend._

"No," Smith murmured, pulling Mikey back to the present, and Mikey heard the bed creak as he shifted. "Stop it, I said –"

He paused, a frown darkening his features, and shifted again, drawing his legs up as if prepared to kick.

" _No_ ," he said, louder; Mikey saw his fists clench in the bedclothes and stood up, setting Saporta's letter aside.

Ross was quiet, next to him, as he had been for almost all of his ordeal, pale and clammy and breathing raspily. McCoy had tried separating them when it became apparent Smith had developed a sympathetic fever, but they had both seemed to weaken and suffer, and so had been reunited. 

Mikey cleared his throat and clanked around a bit, as sometimes that was enough to jar Smith loose of whatever nightmare gripped him. Mikey had tried shaking him awake once, and gotten a sharp left hook for his trouble. He had passed off the resulting black eye with a shrug, but he didn't make that mistake again.

It seemed to work; Smith relaxed and settled, coughing a little bit as he moved around. Mikey was about to return to Saporta's missive when the door creaked open and McCoy stepped in the room.

"Any change?" He asked, unwinding his scarf and peeling himself out of his greatcoat.

"Mr. Ross' breathing seems a fraction easier today," Mikey reported. "And they were both awake and able to take some soup this morning."

McCoy made a thoughtful noise, and moved closer to the bed. Mr. Smith's eyes opened as soon as McCoy's hands came near him, and it was only McCoy's reflexes that saved him from a black eye of his own.

"Feisty," he murmured, gently releasing Smith's wrist. "Perhaps too much hot blood."

"Your helpers must be stunned by this sudden season of feasting," Mikey said, fighting not to bolt from the room as McCoy pulled the jar of leeches out of his bag.

McCoy grinned briefly in response, then addressed himself to his patients. Mikey repressed a shudder and went back to his letter, where Saporta's account of the various and sundry quirks of the pub landlords of Salem's Pocket proved most diverting.

**

"Salem's Pocket," McCoy said, not looking away from the window of Gerard's study. "That's at least twenty miles from the nearest harbor."

"And twenty miles from anyone who might know his face, or his reputation." Gerard rearranged a couple of the piles of letters on his desk and sat back in his chair.

"And now he fancies himself both a friend to the downtrodden and a dramaturge," McCoy murmured. "Mikey said you had received word Korse was planning a grand masqued entertainment for the end of the summer. I take it you plan to attend?"

"The master of Wolfhame would never presume to impose where he was likely to be unwanted," Gerard said, reaching for his cup of tea. "But I have some cousins who have become estranged from the family; they maintain an abiding interest in the improvement of the poor, and who might cadge an invitation." 

McCoy turned and gave Gerard a long, narrow look.

"Cousins," McCoy said slowly. "Have I met them?"

"No," Gerard said, struggling to keep his mouth straight. "They are quite virtuous and respectable ladies who would not lower themselves to associating with pirates or the sort of blackguard who writes for the stage. Mikey and I are a plague upon the house, in their estimation."

"I see," McCoy murmured. "And yet they would attend a frivolity like a masqued ball? Put on by a, how did you say, blackguard who writes for the stage?"

"A blackguard with ten thousand pounds a year and the ear of the King," Gerard said, making a wry face in response to McCoy's dismayed expression. "And who makes quite a show of his generosity to the less fortunate. Whatever his sins, he would not embarrass them by engaging in trade, as Mikey and I do."

McCoy was silent for a long time. "If he catches wind of the deception, he'll kill you."

"I know," Gerard said, and took another drink of his tea. "But there is some intelligence that cannot be gathered from afar, or by others, and it is expected to be quite a large affair. Meanwhile, tell me, how are your patients faring?"

McCoy frowned, but didn't challenge the shift in the direction of the conversation.

"Mending, slowly," he said. "Smith's fever broke late last night, and Ross' early this morning. We may yet continue to enjoy their company."

Gerard permitted himself a small sigh of relief. He had spent most of the preceding week either holed up with his brother discussing strategy, or deeply enmeshed in a drawing, but even he had noticed the anxiety that had permeated the house and the way his men were hovering over the two small forms in the big bed.

"Actually, I should return to them," McCoy said. "If you will excuse me?"

"Of course," Gerard said, then rose out of politeness, and stood until the door to his study was closed.

** 

The next time Ryan opened his eyes there was a little bit more light in the room. Heaven looked a lot like a bedroom. Spencer was asleep next to him (still? again?) , but there was also a tabby cat curled up between them with its tail draped over its nose. Ryan could hear an angel singing somewhere nearby. Ryan let go of Spencer to pet the cat, and -- Ryan decided it is a she -- as soon as he touched her, she stood up, stretching prettily and butting her head against his fingers at the same time. 

Ryan pressed his fingers against her muzzle and obediently scratched her ears when she dipped her head. She was warm, too, but Ryan supposed everyone must be warm in Heaven, or Purgatory, or wherever they were. (Spencer continued to insist they were alive, but Ryan refused to believe him.) Though Ryan was surer that they were in Heaven now, since he really couldn't imagine what a cat would have done to end up in Purgatory. 

The cat tested his belly with one paw, then two, before arranging herself on his sternum, neat as a breadloaf. Ryan rubbed his fingers under her soft chin and she began to rumble. Her warm weight and the noise were easing Ryan off to sleep again when the floor creaked and the angel's voice grew closer. The angel was singing a particularly bawdy drinking song. Ryan couldn't decide if he was amused or vaguely horrified that someone had taught an angel the words to the _Maid of Hamptontown._

The cat turned toward the angel's voice and meowed loudly. The angel stopped singing, and Ryan could hear the _click click click_ of boots on wooden floors, which brought up the larger question of why an angel would bother with boots. Ryan curled his fingers around Spencer's hand and lay as still as he possibly could. Ryan didn't know what was going on – where they were, or who had taken them, or anything – but he did know he wasn't going to let Spencer be taken from him again, by the heavenly hosts or anyone else.

The angel, when he came to the side of the bed, looked male. Ryan still couldn't see very well but he got the impression of dark hair and fair skin. The angel put a hand out and scratched the cat behind her ears; she arched into the touch briefly, then rose and jumped down, which woke Spencer up. He grumbled into the pillow and sat up, rubbing at his eyes.

"The Captain would be grateful if you would join him in his study, Mr. Smith," the angel said, his hand the barest pressure on Ryan's belly. It, too, was oddly heavy and warm.

Ryan pushed that thought aside for the moment, more concerned about who the Captain might be as well and why he had need of Spencer. In Ryan's experience, being invited to an audience with the master of the house did not end well.

"Take me instead," Ryan mumbled, and his voice was more a growl than a purr, nothing like it used to be, but he was glad he could speak at all. 

The room went very, very quiet. 

"No, Ryan, no," Spencer said, sounding more distressed than Ryan could ever remember.

"Yes," Ryan insisted.

"No," Spencer said, and then fell silent, and darkness came up to claim Ryan before he could argue the point.

**

"Mr. Smith," Gerard said, blotting the piece of paper he was drawing on carefully. "I take it you are feeling better?"

"Yes, sir, thank you," Smith said. Gerard could see his fingers twitching, as if he wanted to clench his fists and was thinking better of it. 

"Sit down, Mr. Smith," Gerard said, when it seemed like the boy was determined to linger awkwardly in the doorway. "And how is Mr. Ross?"

"Recovering, sir," Smith said, his entire posture tightening. "Mr. McCoy said he might soon be fit for light duty."

Gerard made a pleased noise, though McCoy had given him a much more dire prediction in private. _He'll be lucky if he walks again_ , had been his exact words. 

"So what can you tell me about Mr. Korse?" Gerard asked, as Toro arrived with tea things. "What is his business these days?"

Smith took a mug when it was offered, but was otherwise quiet for some time. Gerard didn't press him, just sat back in his chair and enjoyed his afternoon snack.

"He didn't let us out much, but from what I could gather, mostly he advertised himself as a charitable gentlemen," Smith finally said. "The troupe was just for the entertainment of himself and his particular friends, but there was also the workhouse. Though he didn't call it that."

"Oh? What term did he prefer?" Gerard asked, leaning forward.

"He called it Better Living Industries - put it about that he was running a school, to help the unfortunate." Smith explained. "Said it was for particularly intractable and hopeless cases. People who couldn't get on anywhere else."

"I see," Gerard murmured.

"We used to see the boys now and again," Smith continued. "They always looked half-dead. And we heard terrible stories about the girls and the wardens as well. But whenever the toffs came to tour the place they brought the sick ones in with us, and scrubbed everyone else up, made it look all bright and shiny. But as soon as they were gone, all of that was done, back to business as usual."

Gerard made a thoughtful noise. He had other, more detailed reports of Korse's outrages, but Smith's comments were useful corroboration.

"Sir," Smith began, then stopped.

"What is it, Mr. Smith?" Gerard asked, though he had a feeling he already knew. Both Mikey and Iero reported that there had been a certain amount of anxious whispering in the sickroom of late.

Smith ducked his head, a vain attempt to hide the dark pink flush spreading slowly over his face. "Mr. Ross –"

"He is quite welcome here, as are you," Gerard cut in. "I have already cancelled his debt, and when he has regained his strength I will offer him the same choice as I did you, to stay or go as he desires. If he chooses to stay some useful work will be found for him."

Smith raised his head, his expression equal parts relief and disbelief, and Gerard marshalled a smile. He had listened to McCoy's dire predictions with a sober face, but Ross had defied expectations before, and could well do so again. In any case, there was plenty of room in the house, and besides, the men had grown attached to them, Iero and Mikey in particular. 

"Thank you, sir," Smith said, and returned his gaze to his knees.

"You're welcome, Mr. Smith. Please give Mr. Ross my best wishes for his continued recovery, and do let me know if you have any further insights on Mr. Korse in the future." Gerard stood up with Smith, and watched him depart.

**

"What do you think, Mikey?" Gerard asked, patting his wig into place and turning around slowly.

The skirts were a heavy and unfamiliar weight, and the corset quite thoroughly constricting. He felt like he might tip over at any moment.

"That you and Great-Auntie Rosicrucia have much the same moustache," his brother said around his cheroot. "Also, that yellow does not favor you, and the style is quite painfully outdated. No cousin of ours would embarrass herself by wearing it to a ball."

Gerard frowned and turned to the mirror again, smoothing his hands over the fabric bunched around his hips. He supposed Mikey had a point; even to his own eye he looked remarkably like a lemon.

"The blue damask has been much eaten by moths," Gerard said. "Mr. Iero has done his best but it cannot be salvaged."

"And the red brocade?" Mikey asked, taking another drag on his cheroot.

"Mr. Bryar observed it might be more appropriate to call on the neighbors in Tortuga," Gerard said, and looked affronted when Mikey choked on a laugh. "I suppose I am consigned to the purple."

Mikey coughed a few more times then beckoned Gerard over to assist him with his stays. 

**

The next time Ryan surfaced, the room was full of light and angels, and the angels were singing _Whisky in the Jar_. Spencer was gone, but the cat was curled up in his place. Ryan realized he must have made a noise when she raised her head and meowed and the angels broke off and one of them -- taller than the other one, but also dark-haired and fair-skinned, if the blur was anything to go by - came over to the bed. Ryan tried to sit up but he couldn't get his limbs to move.

"Shhhh, be still," the angel said, and Ryan felt a hand on his arm. 

Ryan froze, fighting the urge to curl in on himself, and tried to ask where Spencer had gone.

"Mr. Smith's having a bath," the angel said, stroking Ryan's arm, his hands more rough and calloused than Ryan would have expected from an angel.

While that news did not make Ryan feel any better - baths were also never a good sign - the angel kept up a steady stream of nonsense clearly meant to soothe. Eventually the angel stepped away, and when he came back, he helped Ryan move so he was propped upright against his pillows, then gave him some water and chicken broth, and a slightly less bitter drink than usual. 

Ryan obediently consumed all of it, and was just starting to doze off when the bed dipped, dislodging the cat, and Spencer climbed up in her place. He was pink-cheeked and smelled strongly of saddle soap. Ryan rested a hand on Spencer's knees - still solid, still warm -- and the ache in his stomach eased. 

"My turn," he said, or tried to say; his mouth still didn't work quite right sometimes. But whatever Spencer had had to be washed for, Ryan was not letting him go alone. 

Spencer frowned and leaned closer; Ryan repeated himself. Spencer's eyes widened briefly, and then he left the bed and had a conversation with the angel, who had retreated to a far corner of the room, too distant from the bed for Ryan to follow the exchange.

Ryan forced himself to look away, and concentrated to examining the rest of his surroundings. His vision was still maddeningly blurry, but he could pick out the dark wooden bulk of a dresser, as well as the rounded outlines of chairs. He had just turned his attention to the windows when Spencer returned with the angels trailing behind him. Ryan squinted, but he couldn't make out their wings, which was an additional disappointment.

"Mr. Bryar is going to help you get to the bathroom," Spencer said, and the second, broader angel stepped closer to the bed.

Ryan frowned – since when did angels have proper names? – but didn't fuss as Bryar lifted him out of the bed, sheet and all, and carried him out of the room. Ryan could tell the angel was moving as slowly as possible, but after so long a-bed the movement made Ryan horribly dizzy, and he clung to Bryar's shoulder with his eyes shut, praying he wouldn't disgrace himself. 

After a minute his stomach settled, and he was able to open his eyes a fraction. Heaven also had long corridors lined with portraits of forbidding-looking ladies and gentlemen and lit by guttering candles mounted in sconces. The bathroom, when they got there, was bright and airy, and was wholly unlike the dim, cold room Korse had provided. Bryar set Ryan down on a chair and stepped away to attend to the tub, leaving Spencer to help Ryan undress. 

Ryan consented to being stripped to the skin, but clung to the sheet to preserve his modesty, only letting it go once Spencer had lowered him into a tub full of hot, soapy water. Ryan closed his eyes and sagged against the smooth copper at his back, then stretched his limbs as much as he could, reassured by the low rumble of Spencer's idle conversation with Bryar and almost too comfortable to be frightened. 

He would have been content to just soak for a while, but he took the sponge when Spencer handed it to him, then held still while Spencer washed his hair. The water had cooled considerably by the time Ryan declared himself finished, and let Spencer lift him out of the tub and wrapped him in a big towel. Bryar produced a soft dressing gown and bundled Ryan into it, then gathered him up for the journey back to bed. Ryan tried to stay awake, intent on being conscious for whatever horror might be coming, but he dozed off again.

The next time Ryan surfaced he was dry, dressed and in bed, and Spencer was sleeping next to him, his breathing slow and easy. Ryan stretched some more, and was idly surprised when his head was mostly clear and his limbs didn't ache in any new ways. He clenched his teeth and his fists and pushed himself up into a sitting position. The room looked the same as when they had left it earlier. 

Ryan clenched and unclenched his undamaged fingers and tried to remember what happened after they had left the bathroom. The warm water had felt good, perfect, soothing away aches that he had forgotten didn't just belong as part of him. He couldn't remember anything bad, no tongues or teeth or cocks or wandering hands. He pushed the blankets aside carefully, and took a good look at Spencer. 

Whatever else the not-angels might be up to, they were feeding him. Furthermore he had some color, like he had been out in the sun, though not so long as to burn and blister, so probably not in the fields. And he was breathing deeply, no hitching and no wincing. Ryan was almost afraid to touch him, sure that everything would disappear, and he would wake up in Korse's cellar. Still he rested his fingertips on Spencer's arm, the weight of the touch deepening as he relaxed.

Spencer sighed, "Ryan?" 

Ryan pulled his hand back. Spencer was quiet for a moment, then moved closer, curled in, and went back to sleep.

At some point it started to rain, and Ryan permitted himself to be lulled into a doze by the water hitting the windows. He wanted to know where they were, and why they weren't in the servants quarters, and most of all what kind of bargain Spencer had struck and with whom, but he was unwilling to wake Spencer up to ask him. Ryan wasn't quite tired enough to sleep; instead he lay quiet but awake, listening. Heaven sounded like an old house creaking and settling, and cats snoring. 

Though if he was honest with himself, Ryan had to admit he knew that wherever they were, it wasn't Heaven. And the people looking after them were not angels. A part of him was disappointed; a larger part of him was terrified. He doesn't linger too long on the fact that a part of him was filled with savage joy to be alive, and with Spencer, both of them not-dead together.

Distracted by the the softness of the bed and Spencer's warmth, Ryan didn't notice the not-angel was in the room until he started singing -- _What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor_ , this time -- and felt hands on him, smoothing the blanket over his shoulder. Ryan jerked away, unthinking, and almost fell off the bed. 

The not-angel seems to be just as startled, because he jumped backward, almost knocking over the candle and the cups on the bedside table. The movement woke Spencer, and as Ryan watched his expression change from sleep-grumpy to alarmed to a careful mask, he felt sick. This must be Master, or, as Spencer insisted on calling him, the Captain. Ryan tried to apologize and Spencer shushed him.

"I'm sorry," the man said. "I didn't mean to wake you - " he paused, and Ryan relaxed a little bit. Probably not the Captain, then, despite the heavy velvet frock coat. "I – my brother was called into town suddenly, and asked me to look in on you - would you like some water?"

"Yes please," Ryan murmured, and the man picked up one of the cups and held it out. 

He had dark hair and a pale face, like the first not-angel. Or maybe he was the first not-angel, Ryan wasn't sure. Spencer took the cup carefully and brought it to his mouth, his swallowing loud in the quiet room. The man blinked a couple of times, then flapped his hands and sneezed into his ruffled cuffs. Spencer turned and made Ryan drink; the man sneezed twice more, with increasing volume. Ryan could hear him muttering about cats.

When Spencer turned back, the man reached into the pockets of his coat and produced a largish parcel wrapped up in a napkin, which he set next to Spencer on the bed. It smelled like sugar and some spice.

"Mr. Toro will bring your tea up later," he said. "But I thought you might like a sweet."

"Thank you, Captain Way," Spencer said, very softly.

Ryan managed to turn a gasp into a cough. They had not been taken in by a random kindhearted sailor, but by _Captain Way_ , the pirate playwright. They were at Wolfhame.

There was an awkward silence. Finally Captain Way excused himself and departed.

Spencer flopped back against the pillows for a minute, then untied the napkin and broke a biscuit in half. Ryan shook his head when Spencer offered him one. _Wolfhame._ Everyone knew what happened there, and had heard the tales of servants vanishing in the night, never to be seen again.

"Spencer," Ryan hissed. "Have you taken leave of your senses, or have you been lying to me to save my feelings? Wolfhame is no safe harbor!"

"Captain Way is not the monster he's painted. He sets people free." Spencer said, tapping Ryan's arm with the end of the biscuit.

Ryan blinked at him. _Free_ He could understand dead as kind of free, but he was pretty sure that was not what Spencer meant. Ryan took the half of a biscuit and mouthed at a corner of it. 

The biscuit was soft and sweet and it was the first real solid food Ryan had eaten in -- well, he didn't know how long. He lay back against the pillows and watched Spencer break the biscuits into small parts, and tried to organize the questions in his head. 

"Those stories Mrs. Pepper used to tell weren't true," Spencer said, not looking up. "Captain Way doesn't eat babies, and they don't kill anybody, they send them to the colonies. Or wherever they want to go."

Ryan nibbled on his biscuit. Korse had had a map of the ocean in his bedroom. There had been a enormous drawing of a sea-serpent in the middle, and HERE BE DRAGONS written in loose, flowing script over its head. The colonies had been little circles on the map to the left of the dragon, decorated with palm trees and tiny canoes.

"They're pirates," Ryan said.

"Privateers," Spencer corrected him mildly. "And not any more, though they do still have ships, the _Revenge_ and the _Black Parade_. They use them to help people get away, if they want to go. We can go to the colonies, if we like, or we can stay here." 

Ryan was pretty sure going or staying was kind of a moot point right now, since he wasn't certain he could get out of bed by himself. He also suspected the ships were a lie, or a code for something else. 

"Stay here and do what?" Ryan asked, easing his damaged hand closer to his chest. 

Ryan longed to see Spencer's parents almost as much as Spencer himself, but the idea of making his way in the colonies when he was barely fit to carry a beggar's cup made his stomach roll uneasily. 

"Iero said he would be pleased to be relieved of duty as the Captain's secretary," Spencer said. "And it is not so bad in the kitchen."

Ryan made a thoughtful noise, and took another biscuit when Spencer held it out. 

"Tell me more about the kitchen," Ryan said, and settled back against the pillows. Eventually he dozed off in the middle of a story about Scylla and Charbydis' thieving ways.

**

"Well?" Iero asked, tipping his head back to peer up at Mikey from under the hat.

"The feather is – quite distracting," Mikey said. "But your hands will give us away."

"No more so than his leg, and he can wear gloves," Gerard chimed in from the corner, where he was perched on a chair, practicing sitting in stays.

"All night?" Mikey asked, sticking his cheroot in his mouth. He couldn't light it in the room, with the window closed against the spring chill, but the bitter taste on his tongue was soothing.

"I'll tell people I met with a terrible accident during the war," Iero offered, waggling his inky fingers and rotating on his peg to face Gerard. "Captain?"

"Dashing," Gerard pronounced, standing up and shaking out his underskirt. "Would you care to dance, Mr - ?"

"Ghoul," Iero replied, making a dramatic leg and sweeping the heat off his head. "Fulmine Ghoul. My friends call me Fun. And now you have the advantage of me, my lady."

"Geraldine," Gerard said, dropping a perfunctory but graceful curtsey. "Geraldine Way."

Iero took Gerard's proffered hand and lead him through a perfectly serviceable waltz. Mikey sucked on his cheroot and stretched his legs. With a little bit more practice, they might just pull it off.

**

The next time Ryan opened his eyes, the first - man, Ryan reminded himself, man, not angel -- was sitting in a chair next to the bed, reading a book. He had on a heavy frock coat like Captain Way, but it was absolutely covered in animal hair. Ryan could only suppose that Captain Way was very free with his castoffs, if his servants were dressed so well. 

Ryan did not want to think too carefully about what it meant that careless Captain Way had apparently set a servant to minding himself and Spencer. Ryan tried to push up on his elbow to get the glass of water on the bedside table, but movement amplified the throbbing in his knee from a dull ache to a fiery burn and he fell back panting and trying to swallow a scream. 

Spencer jerked awake, disturbed by Ryan's flailing. Meanwhile the servant dropped his book and moved quickly to give Ryan some water, and then some thin, sweet gruel in an invalid feeder. Ryan took two mouthfuls and then curled his good hand around the feeder and eased it away from his face. It wasn't full, but there was some left for Spencer. 

The servant frowned -- puzzled, not angry, Ryan could tell -- and Ryan breathed carefully for a minute before sliding the feeder over to Spencer, pushing it gently against his fingers. 

"No," Spencer said, carefully moving it back up to Ryan's belly, "That's for you, you finish it."

Ryan frowned at him, a little bit annoyed but mostly anxious that Spencer wouldn't eat, and doubly so that he was being foolish and refusing food in front of the servant, who might tell Ma – the Captain, and - 

The servant cleared his throat. When they turned to look at him, he produced a napkin full of bread, cheeses and rolled meats from one of his pockets, and handed it to Spencer. Ryan could see that Spencer was startled, which produced a fresh jolt of anxiety. Unexpected extra food was also never a good sign.

"Mr. Toro is making pie right now," the servant said. "Apple and blueberry, I think. He said he would be obliged if you would come down for a taste in an hour or two."

"Yes ma - ," Spencer began, and stopped. "Yes, Mr. Way." 

Way's mouth quirked up at the corners and he made a little half-bow before departing. Ryan turned to look at Spencer, now thoroughly confused, and Spencer pressed a pinch of cheese into Ryan's mouth. It was soft, sharp and delicious and Ryan tucked it under his tongue to savor it. 

"The Captain's younger brother," Spencer explained, grinning as Ryan's eyes widened. "I know, it is most irregular, but Toro tells me he has always been keen to tend the wounded."

Ryan regretfully swallowed the lump of cheese, and accepted a cup of water. Spencer broke off tiny pieces of meat and bread and dropped them into Ryan's hands, then ate the remainder himself.

Ryan pretended to sleep after eating because he needed to think, and his thoughts were sluggish and slow. He knew, though, what the bath, the room, the medicine and the extra food meant: Spencer had obviously made some sort of a deal, either with the Devil or Captain Way, but to what purpose, Ryan wasn't sure. 

Ryan was a little bit afraid to look at himself too closely, but he could feel all the places where his body was twisted and torn. He'd even accepted that he was still alive, though it didn't make any sense. He wouldn't be crippled this way if Korse had meant for him to return to the stage. While Spencer has insisted that the brothers Way did not deserve their bloodthirsty reputation, Ryan reckoned pirates, reformed or otherwise, were always on the lookout for treasure. And two half-grown boys, one also half-dead, did not remotely qualify. 

But yet there they were, in the big soft bed, being given medicine and food and tended by the Captain's own brother. Ryan was still turning it over and over in his mind when sleep pulled him under for real. 

**

"Any joy?" Gerard asked before Mikey was even half-way through sorting his morning post.

Mikey sat back in his chair and continued to sort the envelopes. The very last one, a small, cream-colored article, also bore one of the two addresses he had been hoping to see.

"Miss Ivarsson," he said, opening it with his butter knife and skimming the contents. "She would be delighted to assist."

"Tell her she has to leave her knives at home," Gerard said, neatly stabbing a piece of ham with his fork. "And the garrotte."

"She will be so disappointed," Mikey murmured, reading the letter a second time, and more carefully. "She says she has some friends visiting. Mr. Korse is known to them as well, and they are eager to join the affray."

Gerard set his fork down and narrowed his eyes.

"Naturally she doesn't give their names," Mikey reported after a moment, fighting a smile at her arch description of a man that could only be Saporta. "Though I believe we are already acquainted."

"Did we meet on opposite sides of a burning deck?" Gerard asked warily.

"No," Mikey said absently, flipping the second page over. "Though it's possible we robbed them of a prize or two."

Gerard sighed heavily and went back to his breakfast. 

 

**

The next time Ryan woke, he found himself alone. He didn't know what day it was, but the light coming in the window suggested it was probably evening. Spencer had not been especially forthcoming about the Captain's habits, but Ryan had gathered from the chatter that went on over his head that the Captain preferred to spend his evenings alone in his study with his sketchpad, and was rarely disturbed by the rest of the household. If there was a time for Ryan to seek a private audience, it was probably now. Ryan hauled himself into sitting position and began inching his legs around.

"Stop," Captain Way called from somewhere behind him. 

Ryan's focus blurred for a moment, but then it sharpened again, and the first thing he saw were Captain Way's shaking hands hovering near him. Ryan associated that kind of trembling with rage, but the Captain's expression was more anxious than infuriated.

"I've frightened you," the captain murmured. "My apologies. But Mr. McCoy has issued strict orders that you are not to put any weight on the knee for at least one more month."

Ryan blinked at him, completely at a loss for words. The Captain handed him a cup of water from the bedside table, unbidden, and Ryan took a deep but careful drink.

"You should have a bell," the Captain said, frowning at Ryan's empty bedside table. "I will ask Mr. Iero to find one for you."

"Master, what is it that you want from us?" Ryan asked. "Why do you do this?" 

Captain Way went very still, and Ryan braced himself as best he could for impact, silently berating himself for having been so _stupid_. Two breaths later, he was enormously surprised to realize the Captain hadn't hit him and was, in fact, giving him a thoughtful look.

"I prefer to be called Captain, and I – we - want for you, both of you, to be well," Lord Captain Way finally said, softly but firmly, straightening his shoulders. "I – have worn chains myself, and I remember how they chafe."

Ryan looked down at the Captain's hands, as if he would see ghostly manacles lurking amid the ruffled cuffs. Instead there were just ink stains on his fingers and paint smudges on his sleeves.

"But how do you want me - us - to serve you?" Ryan asked, rubbing his claw-like left hand on the blanket. 

He could feel it, mostly, but his fingers wouldn't work. Between that and his knee, Ryan was useless for heavy labor, and possibly for lighter housework as well and – Spencer had been very clear on this point – the household had no use for his other skills.

"I-" Captain Way began, then stopped. 

Ryan reminded himself to breathe, and to not think of the possibilities -- himself sold away from Spencer, Spencer sold away from him, both of them sent on to a more traditional house, or to be eaten by dragons on the way to the colonies -- lest he disgrace himself by falling at Captain Way's feet and begging for mercy.

"This is a large house," the Captain said. "There is always work to be done. And, too, my brother and I have a print shop in town. You have been on the stage and must know your letters - a place can be found for you there, when you are feeling better, if that would suit you."

Ryan blinked at him, startled, because Spencer had not mentioned anything about a print shop. Captain Way's pocket chimed loudly and they both jumped. The captain fumbled his watch out to turn it off, then made his excuses and hurried away amid promises that he would send Spencer up with food.

**

"One, two, three, one, two – that was my foot – one, two – stop." Gerard caught Iero an in extremely unladylike grip and held him still.

Iero shook loose, flopped down on a nearby chair, and yanked his wig off. Gerard fussed with his skirt for a moment then turned to Mikey.

"That was better," Mikey opined. "It almost looked like a proper gavotte."

Gerard sighed heavily; Iero's face settled into a mutinous expression.

"You will have to stop for today anyway, Mr. McCoy will be arriving any minute now to check on his patients, and I need Mr. Iero to accompany me to town," Mikey said. "I have several shops besides our own to call in on. Miss Ivarsson has suggested a few volumes worth reading and Mr. Armstrong has written from Bridgetown requesting a lengthy list of provisions to be prepared for his next voyage."

Gerard gave him an eyebrow, but Iero jumped up, clearly grateful for the reprieve. 

**

The next morning Ryan was awakened by a terrific clatter in the hallway and thumping overhead. He tried to get up, but when that made him too dizzy he curled up as tightly as possible and squeezed his eyes shut. The clamor had barely faded when he heard the door pop open. Ryan burrowed further into the bed and tried to steady his breathing. Spencer had said they could trust these people, but -

"Ryan," Spencer said, as the bed shifted under his weight. "Look what I found in the attic."

Ryan uncurled a little bit and opened one eye, and then the other. Bryar was standing in the doorway, and in front of him was a large wheeled chair. There were blankets draped over the seat and back. Ryan stared at it and then at Spencer, his terror slowly replaced by confusion.

"The doctor said you can get out of bed, but you still musn't try to walk," Spencer said, his mouth curving into a grin.

Ryan pushed himself upright, and Bryar came and moved him into the chair. Spencer fetched a robe from the armoire and bundled Ryan into it. Sitting upright after so long abed was a little bit dizzying, but that soon passed. 

"Set us a course, Mr. Ross," Mr. Bryar rumbled when they emerged into the hallway. It was brighter than Ryan remembered

Ryan tilted his head back to look at Spencer, not quite sure how to answer the man. Spencer, when he looked back, seemed equally baffled.

"Cook's tour it is, " Bryar said, and Ryan clutched the arms of the chair as it started to move.

"This is the captain's room," Bryar said, stopping at an ornately decorated door in the middle of the corridor. 

"Mr. Way is next door," he continued, gesturing at a different heavily decorated door on the other side of the hall. "The rest of us bunk abovedecks."

Ryan frowned, but Bryar moved them on before he could ask any questions.

"This was the Lady's room," Bryar said, carefully pronouncing the capital letter, when they came to plain black door. "It's not to be disturbed. Iero does the mending in her study – " he pointed to the next door down " - and you're welcome to join him if you like."

When they got to the top of the stairs, there was a man sitting on the top step, hunched over a music box. He seemed to be fiddling with the gears. 

"Mr. Ross, this is Mr. Toro," Mr. Bryar said, tilting his head towards the stranger. "He makes the best turtle soup this side of Tortuga."

Toro actually blushed a little bit at that comment, which Ryan filed away for later consideration. Getting on the cook's good side was key to survival in any house, and Toro showed no obvious signs of a cruel nature. 

"Would you like to venture belowdecks?" Bryar asked, his eyebrows arching slightly.

"Yes please," Spencer said, and Ryan squeezed the edges of the chair once before Bryar gathered him up.

Bob took the stairs one at a time, humming under his breath. ( _Maid of Fife-e-o_ , Ryan noted absently.) Spencer and Toro came down behind them with the chair, just as slowly, and Bryar lowered Ryan back into it.

"We have other tasks we must attend to now," Bryar said, once Ryan was settled. "We will see you in the kitchen later."

With that, Toro and Bryar left Ryan and Spencer alone. Ryan's body was starting to protest being upright for so long, but he clenched his teeth and ignored it as best he could. He was both startled and grateful when Spencer pulled a bottle of laudanum out of his pocket and put a drop under Ryan's tongue, which soon dulled his aches and pains so that they were bearable.

They went through the house slowly, passing through the parlour and the dining room - "No-one eats here," Spencer said, matter-of-factly – and then Spencer pushed him into a book-lined room that could only be the Captain's study.

"Spencer, I don't think – we shouldn't be in here," Ryan began as they crossed the threshold, panic rising in his chest.

"We have our liberty of the house," Spencer reminded him. "And Captain Way has said you might have a book, if you wanted one.

"A book?" Ryan repeated, barely daring to believe it. 

The books smelled so good. It had been so long since Ryan had been near so many, or even one, really. He wanted to touch every one of them, to lie down somewhere and curl up and read until his eyes slipped shut. 

"Or several, if you like," Spencer confirmed. "What's your pleasure?" 

"Are there any about the shop?" Ryan asked.

"Hm." Spencer squinted at the shelves, then drifted over to a low table where papers were piled. "There are some advertising pamphlets here, I think." 

"Those," Ryan said, and then decided to push his luck. "Does he have any novels?"

" _Tom Jones_ ," Spencer reported, tugging several volumes off the shelf. " _Mysteries of Udolpho?_ "

Ryan made a low noise of pleasure and Spencer grabbed those volumes as well as a handful of broadsheets and pamphlets. He set the lot of them in Ryan's lap, then continued into the kitchen. Ryan wrapped all of it carefully in the edges of one of the blankets and wedged it between himself and the side of the chair.

In the kitchen they found a familiar scene: one person – Toro, Ryan realized, when he turned around - turning a brace of chickens on a spit over the fire; Bryar, who was cutting vegetables; and one more -- dark hair, heavily tattooed, peg leg -- cutting up cheese. 

"Mr. Smith," Toro called out, sounding pleased. "And Mr. Ross. You know Mr. Bryar, and that is Mr. Iero at the cheeseboard."

Spencer rolled Ryan closer to the table and left him alone for a little while, before reappearing with two mugs of beer and a plate of bread, cheese and sliced meats. A few minutes later Iero came over with a bowl of soup and a broad smile. Ryan regarded both soup and smile warily.

"It's chicken," Iero said. "Turtle is only for special occasions now that we're beached."

Ryan stared at him briefly, then leaned forward and took a cautious spoonful. It was chicken, rich and salty, and there were potatoes and carrots as well. He ate the rest slowly, and stole some of Spencer's bread to dip in and clear up the dregs. 

When he finished Ryan burrowed into his blankets and closed his eyes, intending to rest for just a moment, until Spencer had finished eating. Instead he fell asleep, lulled by a full belly and the warmth of the fire. 

** 

The next day, or at least the next time he woke up -- Ryan had no idea how much time had passed, but the light outside was bright, suggesting midday, and he felt a distant spike of terror for oversleeping – it was to the muffled thudding of Iero's leg on the carpet as he carried a tray of food and steaming tea across the room.

Ryan sat up, rattled but also hungry, and kicked Spencer awake with his good leg.

"Fine morning to go ashore!" Iero said, flashing him a grin. Ryan blinked, still too muzzy with sleep to untangle his meaning, and then he was gone.

When they were finished, and as presentable as they were going to be, Spencer brought the plates down to the kitchen. He came back with Mr. Bryar, who carried Ryan down the stairs and out to the back garden, where the chair was waiting. The paths were hard packed dirt, and the flower beds were a riot of color. 

Ryan could see how they must have been proper English gardens once, the shapes of the boxes were neat and trim, but they were full of wild flowers and heavily mixed with weeds, except for a section at the middle that was entirely composed of roses of all different colors. Spencer wheeled him around slowly, stopping periodically for Ryan to smell things that were particularly pretty, and roll petals gently between his fingertips. 

Ryan was just starting to feel a little pain-sick and sleepy when they rounded a corner and came upon a man Ryan didn't recognize. He was stripped to the waist and barefoot, and seemed to be singing an encouraging song to a row of hollyhocks. His back was broad and lightly tanned under a massive tattoo of a ship in full sail. Ryan could see a couple of whip scars on his ribs, but they were pretty obviously old.

Spencer cleared his throat and the man spun around, his face relaxing into a broad, friendly grin when he saw Spencer, then settling into a carefully controlled expression when he noticed Ryan. 

"Ryan, this is Jon Walker," Spencer says, his voice clear and untroubled. "He attends to the gardens and assists Mr. Conrad with the horses."

Walker tipped an invisible cap and made a lazy leg in Ryan's direction.

"You're looking well, sir," Walker says, and it didn't sound like a lie to Ryan, though he was sure it must be. 

"Thank you," Ryan said. "Your roses are beautiful."

"Why thank you, sir. The secret is I feed them the finest horse shit," Walker said, the wide grin coming back.

Spencer snorted a laugh and Ryan managed a smile.

"The gorse is all run wild," Spencer said, not quite scolding but close - Ryan's stomach clenched with alarm - but Walker just grinned wider.

"Well, then, I reckon you'll have to tame it," Walker said, then turned to face a stand of dogwoods. "Belle, you lazy creature, come here and do your duty."

The largest dog Ryan had ever seen ambled out of the trees and over to Walker's side. He patted her broad shoulders, and then she crossed the ground between Walker and Ryan in couple of steps. Ryan held out a hand when she got close enough and she sniffed it with great deliberation before sitting down and laying her massive head in his lap.

Ryan rested his fingers on her satiny-soft head. She nudged his wrist with her cold nose, then licked it, and he scratched her behind the ears, grinning when her eyes slid shut.

"Belle," Walker said mildly. She made an exasperated noise, but got up and started walking toward the trees, swinging her head around and whuffling at them until they followed her.

She led them to a hammock slung between two trees. Spencer scooped Ryan out of the chair and lay him in it, settled his blanket around him, then produced the laudanum bottle from his pocket and gave Ryan two drops under his tongue. Meanwhile, Belle flopped down on the ground next to the hammock, and watched Walker with her ears tilted forward. When Spencer turned as if he meant to leave, Ryan grabbed his wrist with his good hand.

"It's okay," Spencer said. "I'm just going over to the edge, there - " he pointed to a flower bed not far away, where indeed the gorse was running wild. "You just rest now. Belle is going to stay with you, she'll come get me if you need me."

Ryan just stared at him. Spencer lowered himself into the empty wheelchair and started prying Ryan's fingers off his wrists, murmuring assurances the whole time, and gradually, between the laudanum and the lingering terror of what might happen if Spencer didn't do his chore, Ryan let go and fell back against a pillow in the hammock. Spencer kissed Ryan's temple, then stripped his shirt off, and joined Walker in by the flowerbeds. Ryan eventually dozed off watching Spencer and Walker hack at the gorse. 

**

"Miss Ivarsson has suggested a course correction," Gerard said, laying the letter aside and setting his tea cup down gently in the saucer. "Mr. Korse has apparently decided to spend the season in Bath. Miss Ivarsson has lodgings there – I believe you know the house? - and suggests I – or rather, our cousin - should visit for a fortnight. I think I shall accept - I'll need Mr. Bryar to escort me and Mr. Conrad to drive the coach."

Mikey speared a piece of sausage with his fork, popped it in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. It was a bit spicier than normal; he made a mental note to tell Toro he appreciated the change. He swallowed carefully and took a mouthful of tea before answering.

"All right," he said. "But what of our other cousin? And what about Mr. Ghoul? Mr. Iero will be quite sad if you have reduced his role."

"The lady cannot stop away from home for so long, as she is needed to keep the house in order and tend to a relative who is delicate and often unwell," Gerard said. "But she will, of course, attend the masque. As for Mr. Ghoul he is still in the script – he will make a more dramatic entrance later. Mr. Bryar is more suited to the complexities of this voyage. He does excel at drawing people into indiscretions."

Mikey made a thoughtful noise into his crumpet, and was quiet while Gerard made short work of his eggs.

"Go canny, brother," Mikey said a bit later, spearing another piece of sausage. "Korse has a shrewd eye, and knows your face. He may remember Mr. Bryar from previous engagements as well."

"Mm, but only one, and he tends to fix it on comely young ladies," Gerard said. "A matron of my advanced years, however painted and primped, is unlikely to be the object of great scrutiny. The lure I offer is the promise of annoying his enemy. If necessary I shall make complaint about the trial of being so like my ne'er-do-well cousin. And as for Mr. Bryar, at the rate he has been growing his beard lately, his own mother might not recognize him."

Mikey ate some more sausage. "And if Korse asks you to dance?"

"I shall take a page from Mr. Iero's book and tread constantly upon his toes," Gerard said, his lips twitching upwards into a smile.

Mikey cut off a bit of egg with his fork and ate it slowly. He could nearly see the logic of it – Gerard on his own, however he was dressed, was sometimes generally less remarkable than the two of them together, and anyway, someone had to mind the house – but he felt the sting of the change quite keenly. He consoled himself with the knowledge that there would be other battles to fight.

** 

The first time Ryan tried getting up on his own, he managed to remain upright for a whole thirty seconds before his knee gave out and he hit the floor with an echoey thud. He was so startled by his abrupt descent he didn't immediately notice the pain that followed. He was still processing the experience when both Spencer and Iero arrived to gather him up and put him back to bed. He accepted both Spencer's scolding and offer of extra laudanum, and dozed fitfully for the rest of the afternoon.

The second time Ryan was, he thought, a little bit smarter: he dismounted the mattress towards the foot of the bed, where he could grab the posts, rather than the middle, and he was careful to put more weight on his good leg. That time he managed a brief circuit between two posts before his knee betrayed him again. He was gathering his strength to haul himself up when Mr. Way appeared, as if out of thin air, his face set in an expression of alarm.

"I'm all right," Ryan said, shifting quickly, trying to get his good leg underneath him and hoping Mr. Way wouldn't notice his ragged breathing.

Mr. Way arched one eyebrow and crouched down, the tails of his coat fanning out behind him. Ryan forced himself to meet his gaze. Mr. Way studied his face briefly, and his expression softened. When he held out his hand Ryan took it, and did his best not to flinch away when Way put another hand on his ribs in the course of helping him up.

He was surprised when, rather than ordering him to bed, Mr. Way allowed Ryan to steady himself using his arm, and stood quietly, as if he had no more pressing task for the afternoon then to serve as Ryan's walking stick. Ryan froze, awash in conflicting instincts.

"Iero reports the garden is quite fine today," Way said, softly, as if he were the servant and Ryan were the master, deciding where his whimsy might lead.

Ryan snuck a glance at his face; his expression was blank but friendly, his eyebrows barely arched. Then a fiery bolt of pain shot up Ryan's bad leg, making him gasp and curl forward and almost fall again. Way caught him and settled him on the bed, and Ryan squeezed his spasming muscle with one hand and pressed the heel of the other against his face. Suddenly he could smell himself, and feel the weight of the grease in his hair.

"I hear immersion in hot water sometimes has a good effect on cases such as yours," Way said. "Shall I ask Mr. Iero to run you a bath?"

"Yes, sir," Ryan managed, still a little bit overwhelmed, and then Mr. Way was gone.

Some time later Mr. Iero arrived, Spencer trailing behind him, and with them as support Ryan was able to take a few agonized, stumbling steps down the hall before he collapsed again. He lay still, too exhausted and ashamed to face them, until Spencer gathered him up and carried him the rest of the way.

"It's all right," Spencer murmured, squeezing Ryan gently as he stepped into the bathroom. "We'll try again later, or tomorrow."

Ryan curled his bad hand against his chest, and pressed his face into Spencer's warm shoulder. He wasn't so sure about that at all, but he couldn't bear to contradict Spencer when he used such a certain, hopeful tone.

**

Gerard woke up when the carriage jerked to a halt, and barely had time to straighten his hat before the door swung open. He stood up awkwardly, a little muddled by the weight of the skirts around his legs, and took Bryar's proffered hand.

Once safely on the steps – well scrubbed, he noted – he tilted his head back to study the front of what would be his home for the next two weeks. Mikey had said very little, only that it was a handsome house. He had only enough time to get an impression of gleaming brickwork before the door swung open and a lady emerged. She was wearing a rich green brocade long-sleeved morning dress, and her hair was piled on top of her head in a riot of ringlets. Gerard was sure he had never seen her before in his life.

"Miss Way," she called out, sounding pleased, then grasped her skirt with one hand and descending the stairs at a stately speed. "I trust you had a pleasant journey?"

"I – Miss _Ivarsson?_ " Gerard stammered, for he did recognize her once she was within closer view.

"None other," she grinned, then turned briefly to greet Mr. Bryar and Mr. Conrad. "Come, let us not stand around on the street like common rabble. It is much finer indoors, and besides I have abandoned Miss Asher at the tea table."

"Yes ma'am," Gerard said, and hastened to follow her into the house.

She moved as quickly as ever – Gerard felt a brief surge of jealousy that a woman he knew to be long-accustomed to trews should have so little trouble with skirts – but he was mostly able to keep pace with her. Inside, the house was neat and, it seemed to Gerard, almost delicately furnished. He would not have expected as Maja Ivarsson, the scourge of Gibraltar, to have quite so many lavishly embroidered throw-pillows.

"It is well you have arrived today, I suspect Miss Asher grows weary of my company," Ivarsson whispered as they approached the dining room. "We have had to keep her concealed in service of our plot, and it grates upon her nerves."

"Captain Way," exclaimed the lady in question, rising to greet them as soon as they entered the dining room. "Why, I almost didn't recognize you."

"Miss Asher," Gerard said, dropping a careful curtsey. "Tell me, what gave me away?"

"You have quite a distinctive and piratical grin," Asher answered promptly. "Later I shall teach you how to look fashionably bored and pleased at the same time. Meanwhile, come and have some pie. Mr. Suarez has quite outdone himself today."

Gerard lowered himself into a nearby chair and did as he was told.

**  
"Himself's pacing in the study again," Toro said, tilting his head upward for emphasis, and Iero made a low thoughtful noise.

Spencer picked a potato off the pile in front of him and set about peeling it carefully. The steady _creak creak creak_ of the floor under Mr. Way's feet had been going on long enough that it had become part of the music of the house. He was more focused on the periodic thudding crashes that marked Ryan's attempts to get around by himself. 

"He had a thick letter from the Captain this morning," Iero offered a bit later. "Came from Bristol as well."

Toro's only response was to be less gentle than usual with the tea cups and saucers, so that they rattled loudly as he loaded Way's breakfast tray.

Spencer was about to volunteer to take the tray up – mainly so he could look in on Ryan on his way back – when the kitchen door creaked open and Ryan appeared. He was pale and shaking, and leaning heavily on Belle, but he was also fully dressed, and his hair was tied back neatly.

"Mr. Ross," Toro exclaimed, and Iero started forward, then stopped, perhaps dissuaded by the grim expression on Ryan's face.

Spencer, immune to such tactics, got up and forced Ryan to take his arm and be helped to the table. Iero brought over a cup of tea, and Ryan drank it in three quick gulps. Spencer felt Belle's warm bulk near his knees as she settled under the table, and stretched a leg out to rub her shoulders with his foot. She whuffled softly and licked his ankle.

"My apologies for my tardiness," Ryan said, snagging Spencer's paring knife with one hand and appropriating a small mound of potatoes with the other. 

Spencer just stared at him; Iero's eyebrows shot towards his hairline, but he said nothing.

"You are precisely on time, Mr. Ross," Toro murmured, then cleared his throat pointedly. "Mr. Smith, Mr. Way's tray is ready. Iero, go and find Mr. Walker and see if there are any peppers for lunch."

Iero saluted and thumped off; Spencer grabbed the tray and hurried up the stairs.

**

The kitchen appeared empty when Mikey opened the door, but he could smell apple pie in the oven, so Toro was likely nearby.

"Mr. Toro," Mikey called out, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard in the scullery.

He waited a moment, straining his ears for sounds of activity, then repeated his call. That time Toro appeared, drying wet hands on his trousers and waving Mikey to silence at the same time.

Mikey closed his mouth and arched one eyebrow, and Toro gestured at the fire, where, Mikey abruptly realized, Mr. Ross was napping on what appeared to be a dog bed. Belle was curled next to him on the floor, also surprisingly well concealed, given her size.

Mikey turned back to Toro and arched the other eyebrow. Toro made a wry face and walked back into the scullery, motioning for Mikey to follow him.

"We went out to catch chickens for dinner while he was peeling apples and when we came back he was already settled," Toro whispered. "Smith offered to return him to his quarters but I said to leave him be, since he's not in the way."

Mikey blinked at him a couple of times. "You're getting soft, old man."

Toro made a low, amused noise and shrugged one shoulder, then straightened up, his face all business. "Has the captain sent new orders?"

"No," Mikey said, not whispering but still careful to keep his voice low. "Just word that Korse has finally fallen into one of their traps and captured two of the _Cobras_ – Mr. Suarez and Mr. Blackinton – and in a day or two he and Miss Ivarsson will start have to start work on getting them paroled, so he must extend his stay in Bath by at least fortnight. Also he went up to Bristol to look in on the _Black Parade_ , and Mr. Cortez is keeping her in fighting trim. "

Toro went through several facial expressions before settling on grim resignation. Mikey gave him a look of wry understanding in return. Going by the recent subtle increase in the level of noise required to carry out simple tasks like washing the dishes and tidying the study, being left at home rankled with Toro and Iero as much as it did with Mikey himself. 

"He also noted that he and Miss Ivarsson have hatched a fresh plot," Mikey continued. "Apparently detailed costumes will be involved, and he has demanded we dispatch as much velvet as we can spare."

"I'll have Mr. Iero and Mr. Walker conduct a raid on the attics," Toro replied, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a grin.

Mikey smiled back, a little relieved that Toro had taken all of the news with good humor, then excused himself to his study.

**

"Avast, knave," Iero pronounced, standing on the settee, holding his cape out dramatically with one hand and holding an invisible sword with the other. "Unhand that cake."

"'Tis fair-won," Walker said, from next to Ryan. "I did battle with two drains and was granted it as a boon from the kitchen-king."

Iero, wobbled briefly then hopped down to firmer ground and swished the cloak around dramatically. Walker set the cake down on a nearby table and stood up, shaking out his clothes, then raised a hand, in which he grasped an invisible sword of his own.

"Lay on," Spencer called out, from the other side of the couch, and they danced through a brief battle.

Ryan shifted uneasily – he still wasn't quite accustomed to the sailors' playful aggression – and adjusted his moat of overflowing baskets of mending. He had been truly astounded at the number of torn handkerchiefs, ripped shirts, distressed trousers and other casualties of Iero's peg leg and the Ways' general inattention to the safety of their clothing he had found while accompanying Spencer on his evening rounds.

"Arm," Spencer called out, and Iero tucked his non-sword hand behind his back.

Ryan snagged a particularly abused shirt from one of his piles and put fresh thread in his needle. He was intent on reattaching a ruffle when the noise from mock-battle abruptly died away. Alarmed by the silence Ryan raised his head and found Mr. Way standing in the doorway wearing an almost apologetic expression. Iero and Walker were frozen at attention, and even Spencer had stood up.

"Be at ease," Mr. Way said, and the other three relaxed a fraction. "Mr. Ross, might I borrow Belle from you for an hour?"

Belle, who of course had her own ideas on the subject, had not bothered to wait for Ryan's stammered agreement, and was already lumbering to her feet. Ryan patted her flank as she shimmed out from under his legs. He did not permit himself to contemplate the possibility that Mr. Way might take her permanently, though of course he had full right to do so.

The silence lingered even after the door had closed. Finally Iero extracted himself from the cloak and flopped down on the settee.

"Surprised to see Himself out and about, he's been holed up in the gov'nor's study all day," Iero muttered. "Toro couldn't even coax him out with a jam tart."

Ryan curled in on himself a little further. Mr. Way had been holed up in his brother's study for several days, not just one, though Spencer reported he was eating everything Toro sent up for him. Since being liberated from his sickbed, Ryan himself had only caught the briefest of glimpses of the man. So far the encounters had all occurred when Ryan was struggling with some sort of simple task, or trailing behind Spencer, clutching pieces of laundry with one hand and Belle's soft nape with the other.

"I should look in on the horses," Walker said, standing up. "Good night, gentlemen."

Ryan joined in the general murmur and tried to refocus on the ruffle, but it was no use, he couldn't concentrate without Belle's silky muzzle resting on his foot. He set the shirt aside and occupied himself with folding handkerchiefs. After a moment, Iero picked up his knitting and started in on a story about Tortuga, which distracted everyone else so that they didn't notice Ryan's level of fretful inactivity.

He was on the verge of getting up to escape to his room – or trying anyway, he couldn't get far without Belle to lean on - when the door opened again and Belle loped in wearing a most unusual apparatus. When she leaned against his knees to demand ear-scritchies Ryan found it was a harness, made of smooth supple black leather and finished with silver. There was a cane-head-shaped hook nestled between her broad shoulders, and on each side there were saddlebags large enough to accommodate buttons, small items of clothing, and, if Syclla's tiny face peeping out at him was any measure, the occasional terrier. 

"Come, try it out," Way said, and Ryan hurried to obey.

He moved with such haste that he almost fell, and Spencer had to grab him about the waist to steady him. Belle whuffled and nudged him with her head. Ryan curled forward to hug her, laughing a little as she licked his face. Then, conscious of Way's gaze, he curled his crippled hand around the cane-head and stepped carefully over his baskets. 

Belle whuffled and shook herself, but came easily enough when Ryan guided her towards the door. Way stepped aside to let them pass, though not before Ryan saw that he was fighting to suppress a grin. Ryan tightened his grip on the harness and led Belle on a slow circuit between the door of the sewing room and his bedroom and back again.

"Thank you, sir," Ryan said, as soon as Way was in earshot.

"It was my pleasure, Mr. Ross," Way said, his grin breaking free. "I wish you the joy of it. Good night, gentlemen."

He executed an awkward half bow and strode off towards his room. The others burst into excited chatter as soon as his door was closed, Iero exclaiming loudly on finding his dog lurking in one of the panniers. Ryan sat down on the floor, still too overwhelmed to make any serious contribution to the conversation.

After a moment, though, the others remembered their manners, and the lateness of the hour. Iero extracted his dog and departed, humming under his breath for the first time in days, while Spencer gathered Ryan off the floor and helped him back to their room.

That night, Ryan fell asleep easily, nestled under Spencer's arm, with the harness clutched to his chest.

**

The kitchen was very quiet with Bryar away with the Captain, and meals especially so. Spencer could hardly admit it to anyone, but he missed Bryar reading the headlines aloud to in a satirical manner over breakfast, and trading ribald stories with Iero over dinner. It was also quiet by necessity, since Mr. Way had started joining them for meals. Toro and Iero seemed unphased, but it made Spencer nervous. Ryan was reduced to picking awkwardly at his food, and Spencer had taken to carrying spare rolls and bits of fruit in his pockets for when Ryan grew hungry.

"Mr. Smith," Mr. Way said, as Spencer was reaching for the marmalade. "There's a faire on in town today. Mr. Iero and I will be going up with the wagon, and I would be pleased if you and Mr. Ross would come along."

"A faire?" Spencer repeated, and winced at his idiotic tone.

"Aye, a proper faire, with stalls full of shiny trinkets," Iero said, sitting down at the table and snagging a piece of ham. "Also pasties. I heard a rumor there's to be a dunking booth. I'm going to sink the vicar if it's the last thing I do."

Spencer gave Ryan an inquiring glance. Ryan met his gaze with wide-eyed alarm, but still nodded his assent.

"Smashing," Way murmured, reaching for the tall pile of letters on the silver salver near his plate. "We'll depart in an hour. Mr. Smith, you'll help Mr. Iero bring the carriage around when you're finished here."

"Yes sir," Spencer said, and applied himself to his breakfast.

As usual he kept an eye on Mr. Way as he read his post. That day's pile was quite large, and his expression darkened noticeably as he made his way through it. A couple of times he hissed through his teeth; once he mumbled a string of very rude words.

"Any word from the captain?" Toro asked, as Iero dumped sugar into his tea.

"Yes," Mr. Way said absently. "He reports that he has been to several festive gatherings and found them tedious; the mamas of Bath are as relentless as ever in pursuit of husbands for their darlings, and the gentlemen zealous in their search for wives; that he is disraught at the level to which he has blackened my name around town, and so far with nothing to show for it; and that both Mr. Conrad and Mr. Bryar send their affectionate greetings and wish to be remembered to everyone in the pub."

Iero made a wry noise into his tea, then drained his mug and stood up. "Come on, Smith, the horses aren't going to bridle themselves."

Spencer cleared his and Ryan's dishes quickly, then followed Iero out to the barn. He was moving a touch slower than usual, and favoring his peg. Spencer clamped down on the fresh wave of worry that washed over him and focused on the complicated business of getting the horses out of their stalls. 

The faire, when they got there, was thronged with people. Spencer was surprised when Mr. Way gave each of them a handful of coins and waved them off with a command to enjoy themselves, and to meet himself and Mr. Iero outside the pub in two hours time, but he didn't argue. 

"Set us a course, Mr. Ross," Spencer said, grunting with both pain and laughter when Ryan stuck a pointy elbow into his ribs.

In truth Spencer was a bit flummoxed. It had been years since he'd been at a faire ( _and not chained_ , part of his brain filled in, but Spencer dodged away from those memories), much less with money to spend. Ryan seemed equally confused, which did make him feel a bit better.

"We'll just go around the green," Spencer decided, shifting his feet as Ryan tightened his grip on his arm. "Perhaps there will be an especially fine prize pig."

Ryan made a low, amused noise, and Spencer took off towards the nearest pasty-stall at a sedate pace. Once fortified, they struck out to explore the various delights on offer. They paused to rest on several occasions, sitting variously on the ledge of the well and the grass, and once on a low wall, to watch several small boys fail to dunk the vicar. Ryan grew increasingly agitated as the day wore on, and Spencer regretted that Mr. Way had decreed Belle had to be left at home for reasons of space in the carriage, as she always had a calming effect on him.

They were on their way to the meeting point, full of pasties and sugary treats and clutching bags of trifles, when a group of whooping children almost knocked Ryan over. Spencer steadied him easily, then diverted them to a back alley, where it was quiet and Ryan could hobble along at his own pace. 

They were so busy rehashing the events of the day they didn't notice the bundle of rags in the path until Ryan fell over it. He was more startled than hurt; the only reason they noticed anything amiss was because Ryan paused to wipe his hands off, and the bundle of rags sprouted a bare, dirty foot. Ryan jumped back and almost fell down again, but Spencer caught him. 

Then Spencer knelt down and investigated the bundle. He peeled back a layer or two and found a person, a tiny, brown-haired person, who was glassy-eyed with fever, filthy, and too-thin. He felt Ryan lean on his shoulders, peering down at the person from above, and held very still. The tiny person didn't have any identification that Spencer could see. 

Spencer put a hand down for balance, then looked over his shoulder at Ryan.

"We can't leave him here," Ryan whispered, tightening his grip on Spencer's shoulder. 

Spencer hummed his agreement, and sighed heavily. The real question was how they were going to get him into Wolfhame. Deep down Spencer knew he should leave Ryan with the boy and go and fetch Mr. Way and Mr. Iero; neither of them would refuse someone in such obvious distress, and the niceties could be sorted out later. On the other hand the house had been unsettled with the captain away; there had been more raised voices, slamming doors, and grumbling over cookpots than usual. The boy was tiny and would be easy enough to hide; they could reveal him when the house calmed down.

"Give me your cloak," Spencer said, peeling the boy out of his rags. "I'll tell them you're feeling poorly and stick him in the wagon. Then I'll create a distraction, and you can climb in when they aren't looking."

Ryan gave him a look that clearly suggested he didn't think much of that plan, but he didn't argue. Spencer wrapped the boy in the cloak, careful to tuck in trailing edges, and set off down the alley with Ryan trailing behind him, hugging the shadows.

Iero was waiting for them when they got to the wagon, and he was by himself. He jumped down when he saw Spencer and his burden, and Spencer moved quickly to get the bundle out of view in the hay that padded the floor of the wagon.

"Too much walking in the heat," Spencer explained. "And then we had some beer at the stall by the milliner–" he walked around the wagon toward the horses, trying to lead Iero away from the alley " – and it was a bit stronger than he expected. He'll – I say, does that lady over there have a model of the Coliseum in her hair?"

Iero's head swung to follow Spencer's pointing finger. Spencer risked a glance over Iero's shoulder just in time to see Ryan's feet disappearing into the space between barrels of salt-pork and casks of ginger ale.

Mr. Way arrived not ten minutes later, his face set and pinched and his hat jammed firmly on his head. He flicked his eyes quickly over the wagon and its contents, and Spencer focused on keeping his face neutral.

"Do we have a deserter?" he asked, his narrow brows drawing down into a frown.

"No, sir, of course not," Spencer said, fresh horror making him stumble over his words. "Mr. Ross is in the wagon, he had a bit too much sun – "

"And a bit of Miss Simpson's best brew," Iero chimed in, winking at Spencer. "Come, let us be away, Mr. Toro is making pigeon pie for supper, and he'll be cross if we are tardy."

Mr. Way cracked a small, fleeting smile, and Spencer felt the knot in his stomach loosen a little bit as he climbed into the wagon and took his place on top of one of the barrels.

**

The ride home was long and very bumpy, and the boy made a lot of soft, unhappy noises. Ryan curled the fingers of his good hand around the boys' palm and squeezed gently, trying to convey that it would get better soon. The boy squeezed back so gently that Ryan could barely feel it. 

"Ahoy the ship," Iero bellowed as Mr. Way hauled the horses to a rattling halt. 

There were a few silent moments followed by some muffled thumping of doors opening and closing. Ryan could also hear Iero tapping out a tune with his peg, but he couldn't recognize it.

"Dispatches, sir," Toro said, his voice oddly flat and formal. "Came by special messenger from Bath an hour ago." 

Mr. Way said a few choice words that Ryan wouldn't have expected a gentleman to know ( _pirate_ , he reminded himself, amused even as he was shocked), and then Ryan heard more muffled thumping.

"Quickly, now, we can get upstairs while they're in the library," Spencer hissed, hauling the boy out and cradling him against his chest.

Ryan untangled himself as quickly as he could and followed Spencer through the rarely-used servants' passage and up the back stairs. Spencer's stories had not been totally false; he was feeling the effects of exercise in the sun, and of heavy faire food. Still, he kept a good pace; when he arrived in the bedroom Spencer was settling the boy on a stray dog pillow and sliding him under Ryan's bed. 

Ryan was in the act of trading his clothes for a nightshirt when they heard Mr. Way's distinctive tread on the stairs. Spencer grabbed Ryan and dropped him on the bed. They stared at each other for a moment, wild-eyed and breathing hard, and then Ryan flopped backwards and pretended to be insensible. Spencer rested a hand on the ankle of Ryan's good leg, then tightened his grip and hauled Ryan around so that his head was on the pillow. 

"He seems to be more or less intact," Mr. Way said when he came in, and then Ryan was aware of hands hovering over him, but not touching.

"Yes, sir," Spencer murmured. "Just needs a bit of a lie down, I reckon. I'll bring his supper up later."

"Very well," Mr. Way said; he sounded distracted. "Mr. Toro has the house for the evening, you may report to him for instructions when you are finished here. And you can light the fireplaces late this evening, as Mr. Iero, Mr. Walker and I have been called to the Mermaid Arms, and I don't expect to return until quite late."

"Very good, sir," Spencer said, and Ryan yanked his foot free with pretend irritation.

There was a long pause, and then Ryan heard Mr. Way's boots go thumping down the corridor towards his room. Part of him was wondering what errand called all of them out so urgently, but mostly he was relieved that his and Spencer's deception had passed undetected. Spencer squeezed his ankle once, and then Ryan heard the door to the room swish shut.

Ryan lay quiet for a moment, then wriggled around and nestled under the covers to wait for Spencer. He was almost asleep when Spencer returned with a tray full of food and water, and bottles of medicine and washcloths stuffed into his pockets. 

Ryan wasn't especially hungry, but he took the small bowl of pie and cup of tea that Spencer handed to him, and ate slowly while Spencer went to work hauling the dog bed out. The tiny person didn't look any better by candle light. 

Spencer peeled the boy out of the rest of his clothes, save for his breeches, then dipped the washcloth in the water and started cleaning him. He worked quietly and efficiently; Ryan could tell he had one ear on the stairs. Ryan, peering down from above, could see the boy was very young, probably not much older than they were themselves, and was doubly glad they had found him.

When he was finished he uncorked one of the medicine bottles. Ryan recognized it as an especially vile-tasting febrifuge, and was not surprised when the boy coughed and grimaced after taking it. Spencer patted the boy's shoulder in apology than picked the invalid feeder off the tray and gave the boy a couple of mouthfuls of soup and some water. When the boy wouldn't take any more, Spencer tugged the blanket off the end of the bed, tucked it around him then slid him back under the trailing skirts. 

"I should go back downstairs," Spencer whispered. "I'll return as soon as I can."

Ryan nodded. "I'll mind him," he said, though it was ruined by a yawn. Spencer snorted in amusement. Ryan fell asleep in the act of making a rude gesture.

**

Meanwhile, under the bed, Brendon wasn't quite sure what had happened. The last thing he remembered was stumbling in the alley and the filthy cobbles coming up to meet him. Now he was was somewhere warm, in clothes he could tell were clean, laying on something soft (and kind of doggy-scented, but not unpleasantly so), his face and neck no longer itched and his constantly griping belly was silent and full. 

He could hear someone else breathing, and the creaking of the house – he assumed it was a house - almost sounded like home. Brendon somehow felt that meant he would be safe, wherever he was, and whoever he was with. Surely the same people who would take him in, feed him, bathe him, and dose him with vile-tasting medicines would not then turn around and hurt him. He was still pondering the possibilities when sleep overtook him.

**

"Bitter for me, please, and stout for my friends," Mikey said, and slid a couple of coins across the polished surface of the bar.

He lowered himself on a barstool and surveyed the room. There were one or two faces he recognized, though he was reasonably certain they wouldn't recognize him all wrapped up in Toro's rattiest old cloak. What he did not see was any sign of Bob Bryar.

"To the right of the fire," Iero murmured, just as the barmen slid their drinks across the counter.

Mikey took two glasses without comment, and picked his way over to the round table in the corner where a hunched bearded figure was waiting for them.

"We're rumbled – Korse has the wind up him," Bryar said, without preamble, and took a swig from the mug in front of him.

Mikey took a deep breath and tried to focus. "He recognized the Captain?"

"Not yet," Bryar said, his mouth curving into a faint smile. "But his First Mate – the ugly one with the dark hair – has been sniffing around these last few days. Was a bit more matey than he should have been. Invited himself to tea with me yesterday, then made a sly comment about Gibraltar – "

Mikey swore softly under his breath, and Bryar made a face in agreement. Iero and Walker were silent, but Mikey could feel them thrumming with anxious excitement. 

"The captain has ordered me to London, and meanwhile we've put it about that I've been called away by urgent family business," Bryar continued. "And that Miss Ivarsson has written to her old friend Mr. Walker to see if he could be prevailed upon to escort two ladies to a few country balls."

"To London?" Mikey asked and Iero echoed, while Walker spluttered into his beer.

"He has dispatched me to seek greater detail of Korse's operations based on new intelligences received from Captain Beckett," Bryar said, his tone brooking no further inquiry.

Meanwhile, Walker had recovered himself. "Have I - has Mr. Walker made a reply?"

"He's organizing his affairs and expects to be on the morning train two days hence," Bryar said.

"And the _Cobras_?" Mikey asked, taking a mouthful of his drink.

"Negotiations are ongoing," Bryar said. "Korse is as tough a customer as ever. Though we judge Mr. Ripley has played it out as long as he can, and they should come to an agreement soon."

Mikey made a thoughtful noise and consumed the rest of his drink in silence, while the men peppered Bryar with questions, mainly regarding the young ladies of Bath. 

**

"Hey," Spencer whispered, as he tugged the dog bed out. "Wake up, I only have a moment."

The boy blinked at him and frowned, clearly disoriented. Spencer sighed. Toro and Iero were busy in the root cellar for the moment, but there wasn't much time. 

"I'm Spencer Smith," he said. "Ryan Ross is sleeping above you just now. You're at Wolfhame –" he paused, but the boy didn't seem perturbed, which was strange; he must have traveled quite far "-and you're safe now."

"Brendon Urie," the boy replied, sticking out his hand. Spencer shook it perfunctorily, noting the lack of heavy calluses as he did so; wherever he was from, Urie was not accustomed to rough labor.

"Whatever you do, stay out of sight," Spencer said, and pulled a napkin full of food out of his pocket.

"I thought you said it was safe," Urie said, rolling on to one elbow to take the food.

"It is," Spencer muttered. "I just – we need – just be quiet for a little while longer. The man with the peg-leg is Mr. Iero, he works in the kitchen, normally, and if you see hear someone singing that's Mr. Way, he's – he's not the Master, but he's close enough. There's also Mr. Toro but he hardly ever ventures upstairs."

Urie settled back against the pillow, his frown deepening. Spencer could tell he was poised to ask more questions, and waved him to silence.

"The Captain is home tomorrow," Spencer offered as an explanation. "We'll sort it out as soon as we can, all right?"

Urie nodded, and Spencer shoved him back under the bed, then ran back downstairs to help Iero peel carrots for supper.

**

"Three o'clock," Walker said as he leaned forward to hand Gerard a cup of lemonade. "Next to Devonshire, bearing to starboard."

Gerard hummed an acknowledgement. Walker drifted away, drawn into conversation with a circle of young men, and Gerard pretended to be deeply absorbed by the dancers for the next two figures, while trying to keep an eye on his target. Then Korse obliged him by selecting a delicate lady from the crowd and leading her into the set. He was as rigid at dancing as he was at everything else; Gerard winced in sympathy for his partner, who was clearly struggling to appreciate his attentions.

When the dance wound to a close the floor cleared, and Gerard lost Korse in the milling crowd. The music started up again a few moments later. Gerard saw Walker step in to rescue Miss Ivarsson from an especially red-faced burgher, and as soon as it was expedient Gerard gathered up his gloves and slipped away, wriggling through the crowd until he found the exit to the garden.

He had just secured a spot inside the entrance to the hedge maze, lit a cheroot and settled down to consider how he was hoing to sneak a large volume of sailors past Korse's footmen when he was abruptly overtaken by a pair of young ladies. 

"Hello – oh, goodness, I beg your pardon," the taller of the two said. 

She had dark hair piled on top of her head and was wearing a rich purple silk that glimmered in the moonlight. The shorter girl was topped with fair ringlets; her dress might have been brown, but Gerard wasn't certain. He was more concerned with the way she was swaying.

"No, it is I who must beg your pardon," he said, being careful to keep his voice throaty. "My apologies, Miss -?"

"Ballato," the tall girl said, her mouth relaxing into a smile. "Lindsey Ballato. And this sozzled creature with me is Chantal de Micturia."

"Geraldine Way," Gerard said, and tried a smile. Something about Miss Ballato's face was very familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

"You," Miss de Micturia said, narrowing her eyes, "are a _pirate_. An infamous one. Cracking good cannon in that one play, though."

Gerard froze, his limbs paralyzed by terror. She was probably not the first to make the association, but she was the only one to express it so directly, and with such certainty.

"Chantal!" Miss Ballato hissed, flushing prettily. "Miss Way is not a pirate, that that is Gerard Way, her - ?"

"Cousin," Gerard supplied, suddenly exhausted by the strain of the deception, and overwhelmed by the desire to remove his stays. "The black sheep of the family. He and his brother are a trial to us all."

"Families can be so difficult," Miss Ballato murmured, catching at Miss de Micturia's arm to steady her. "Come, Chantal, we should leave Miss Way and sit down until you are steadier."

"But why – oh, did we interrupt an assignation?" Miss de Micturia asked, her eyes widening in mock dismay. "Are you waiting for a _gentleman?_ "

Gerard turned nervous laughter into a cough. "No, not at all, I just – I find the ballroom to be quite stuffy and close. I came out for some air."

Which was true, on both counts. He did not mention that he had also escaped because if he had to spend one more minute looking at Korse's ugly face he might be tempted to retrieve the pistol he had concealed in his bodice and shoot out the man's other eye.

"And full of arseholes," Miss de Micturia pronounced, as Miss Ballato steered her to a nearby bench, and settled her on it. "Stuffy, stuffy arseholes, who cannot dance. All things considered I prefer the stews."

"You must forgive her, she is a bit overexcited by the occasion," Miss Ballato said. "We are not often in such elevated company."

"Yes we are," Miss de Micturia said. "It's just that they're normally a bit further away. On the other side of the footlights."

"You are actresses?" Gerard asked, a little surprised, though that would explain why Miss Ballato seemed so familiar.

"Yes," Miss Ballato said, straightening her shoulders and raising her chin, as if expecting a cutting remark. "In London."

Gerard smiled at her, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to disapprove, and probably to stomp off in a horrified huff. At that Miss Ballato relaxed a fraction, and returned his grin.

"You must tell me about it," Gerard said. "I am often at the theater, but, as you say, in the stalls. I'm sure it is more exciting in the wings."

"Surely your infamous cousin must have told a tale or two," Miss de Micturia said, but Miss Ballato ignored her.

"Oh, well, I suppose," Miss Ballato said, fussing absently with her hair. "All of the running about can be a bit tedious, sometimes, but mostly I don't mind."

"She'll drop in her traces, she will," Miss de Micturia chimed in. "March right through from Ophelia to the Lady before she kicks off."

"Do you have a favorite role?" Gerard asked, pretending to ignore Miss Ballato's outraged glare at her friend.

Miss Ballato went pink, and Gerard wondered, belatedly, if that was an inopportune question for one lady to ask another.

"She's quite fond of your Pirate Queen," Miss de Micturia explained. "It's all the swordfighting, y'see, and she gets to wear scandalous outfits while the rest of us run about shrieking."

Gerard's mouth dropped open, not from horror but the shock of memory clicking into place. _Hang 'em High_ had only enjoyed a brief run in London, but the opening night had been a stunning success, thanks in large part to Miss Ballato.

"Right," Miss Ballato muttered, standing up and shaking out her skirts. "I think it's time we went back inside and left Miss Way to –" she paused, her attention caught by something or someone near the door "- oh bloody _hell._ "

Gerard turned to see what had produced such a profane outburst, but before he could get a good look she had taken him by the hand and was tugging him deeper into the hedge maze, and hauling Miss de Micturia along behind them. Gerard stumbled after her, too stunned to protest.

"It's Captain Leto again," she hissed, wedging them into a handy curve of the maze. "I've been dodging him all night, and he is most persistent."

Gerard frowned, something like protective irritation blooming in his chest. "I'll have a word with him, if you like," he said, realizing too late that _Miss_ Way would have no sway with the man, and also that he had used his normal voice.

Miss de Micturia, half in the hedge, made a small noise of triumph. Miss Ballato, too, did not seem distressed; in fact he she was chortling with delight.

"Don't worry, your secret is safe with us," Miss de Micturia said, and belched softly.

"It truly is," Miss Ballato said, recovering herself. "Though I'm perishing to know what prank you are pulling."

"It isn't a prank," Gerard said, somewhat stiffly. "I'm – investigating reports of malfeasance. We had intelligence that Mr. Korse's pet project Better Living Industries is a sham for cruelty, and we aim to put a stop to it."

"Killjoy," Miss de Micturia said, though without any real heat. "Also, you'd better find a finer costume than that one to do it in."

Gerard gathered himself to protest, but before he could speak, Miss Ballato reached out, took his hand and squeezed it gently. 

"Forgive us, Captain," she murmured. "In truth we – I - have heard stories. We are here to investigate the man ourselves, as there is a rumor he is keen to expand his operations to London."

"So I have heard – and he is a vile blackguard," Gerard said, injured dignity forgotten. "You would do well to avoid his company."

"You know him?" Miss de Micturia asked, sounded significantly more sober than she had a few moments prior.

"I have been in his brig," Gerard said, as Miss Ballato's hand slipped away.

The loss of her warmth made the night air seem that much chillier. Between that, their penetration of his disguise, and his sudden awareness of the lateness of the hour, he was abruptly keen to get away.

"I see," Miss Ballato whispered. "The coast must be clear by now – we should go inside. Good luck to you, sir."

Gerard murmured his thanks and followed them out of the maze. They disappeared in a flurry of skirts as soon as they saw the lights of the house. Gerard was grateful to find only Mr. Walker standing on the back steps and peering into the gloom.

**

"All right," Gerard said, once Mikey had closed the door to the study and all of the men had found a place to sit. "Mr. Walker and I got a very good look, and it is definitely Mr. Korse we are pursuing."

"And how is the old man? Keeping poorly, I hope?" Iero asked.

"As well as ever, unfortunately. And well guarded, of course," Gerard said, sitting down on the edge of his desk and accepting a cup of tea from Mikey. "He has retained a large company of sharp-eyed sailors and dressed them as footmen."

"They cannot be his shipmates, can they?" Toro asked, incredulous, from his favorite chair by the window.

"I did see one or two familiar faces," Gerard conceded. "Including his first mate. Though while I did not know the others personally, most bore Neptune's mark upon their person."

Iero made an extremely rude remark under his breath and took a deep drink of his tea.

"He is organized and ambitious," Gerard continued, rising to pace awkwardly in the small space. "I am informed he plans to move to London immediately following the masquerade, so we must act quickly. Miss Ivarsson is still working on extracting an invitation, but if necessary we will go without one."

"All of us?" Toro asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"All of us," Gerard confirmed. "Save for the cabin boys, who will stay behind to mind the house. Miss Ivarsson informs me she will also attend, and Captain Saporta has offered the _Cobras_. Even Captain Beckett may be prevailed upon to bring the _Barringtons_ if need be – "

"Any news of the captured _Cobras_?" Mikey interrupted, setting his cup and saucer down on the table.

"They were paroled the day before we left," Gerard said. "Saporta reported that they were returned to him in a terrible state, as if they had been guests of the Dey, but that they seem to be recovering well. He expects for them to be fit for duty shortly."

There was a brief pause while they all drank more tea. 

"Captain Saporta and Miss Asher will go in first, and be announced – she has several titles, they will borrow one he is unlikely to recognize," Gerard continued. "Miss Way and Mr. Ghoul will follow them. The rest of you will come in quietly, through other channels. And when Korse addresses the gathering, we will show our true selves, and reveal his nefarious activities in a dramatic fashion."

He watched them think about that for a moment. Iero seemed intent on his tea, but Gerard knew that to be a front for deeper contemplation; Mikey and Toro were wary, but, he could see, still willing.

"Miss Ivarsson has gathered several stories from those who have recently escaped his clutches, which I shall fashion into scenes," Gerard continued. "I will share out your parts tomorrow, as we must start rehearsing right away. Mr. Iero, how are the costumes coming along?"

"Very well, sir, just need a stitch or two more here and there," Iero said. "Mr. Ross has been most helpful in that department."

Gerard made a pleased noise, and straightened up. "You are dismissed, gentlemen."

He waited until they had all murmured their farewells and shuffled out before he sat down at his desk. Miss Ivarsson's notes were written in a particularly dense, spikey hand, and he lost a significant chunk of the afternoon to deciphering them.

He was working on the last one when Iero came in with his afternoon tea. He took his time setting it up, making several trips back and forth across the study that struck Gerard as unnecessary. Gerard usually found the steady _swish-thump_ of Iero's gait a comfort, but – he could not say why – at that moment it was nagging at him like an out-of-tune harp in an orchestra. 

Gerard took the cup of tea offered to him, then, under the guise of struggling over a bit of dialogue, proceeded to watch Iero make a wholly unnecessary fuss over the angle of his tea sandwiches. Finally he couldn't take it any longer.

"Spill it out, Mr. Iero," he commanded, putting his pen down. "Are the cannon balls rolling over the deck?"

"No, sir, nothing like that," Iero said quickly, shifting uneasily on his peg. "It's just - I'm not one to peach on a shipmate, sir, but –" he paused for a deep breath "- but since you asked me directly, we have a stowaway." 

"We – where is – he? She? Is it a man or a woman, Iero?" Gerard asked, all thoughts of the scene forgotten.

"We're not sure, sir, but we think they might be hidden in the cabin boys' quarters," Iero said, his face relaxing a fraction. "Smith was uncommon jumpy these last few days, and Ross has been playing the invalid but yet eating like he's on shore leave after a six months' cruise."

Gerard opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I will investigate immediately, Mr. Iero."

"Sir," Iero said, his tone and expression softening. "I'm sure they mean well – "

"Yes," Gerard said, pressing hair fingers against the lower ridges of his eyes. "I am sure there is some logical explanation for it. It is all right, Mr. Iero, you do yourself no dishonor, and I promise no harm shall come to them."

"Thank you, sir," Iero murmured, and showed himself out.

Gerard stood up and shook his cuffs out, then made his way upstairs. As he passed the through the parlour he heard someone in the kitchen, possibly Mr. Smith, singing _Blood Red Roses_ in what was _almost_ the right key. Gerard paused, tilting his head to one side, and listened, and yes, there was Mr. Ross making sly commentary about his friends' abilities, and Mikey laughing at Smith's doubtless aggrieved expression. The coast was clear. 

Still, he took the steps two at a time, and hastily composed an excuse involving an urgently needed book, should either of them return, or should he have misidentified the singer. He opened the door slowly at first, and then more quickly when he confirmed the room was empty. With one quick glance over his shoulder, Gerard crossed to the bed, then crouched down and flipped the bedskirt up in one movement. He was only a little bit surprised to actually find a person there – a young man, and sleeping from what he could see in the gloom – and once he had determined the man had no obvious injuries, he dropped the bedskirt and straightened up.

"Right," he muttered to himself, then went to find his brother.

**

"A stranger aboard a ship and unknown to the captain, no matter how harmless in appearance, puts the whole crew at risk," Gerard said, careful to keep his voice steady. "Were we at sea I would have to give you stripes." 

Gerard fell silent, studying the three anxious faces in front of him. Mr. Smith and Mr. Ross were pale as death, but the newcomer – Brendon Urie was how he had been introduced – had two high spots of color in his cheeks. All three of them looked impossibly skinny and young, Urie more so than the others.

"However we are beached, and I recognize that you have committed an error of compassion, not an act born of malice," Gerard continued. "Even so, I cannot ignore it. I trust you understand the gravity of the mistake, but to fix it in your memory - Mr. Smith, you will report to Mr. Conrad in the stables for the next week, and Mr. Ross, you shall exclude the library from your daily activities for that same period of time."

Gerard glanced briefly at Mikey, who was leaning against the window, then back at the boys. "Mr. Ross and Mr. Smith, you are dismissed. Mr. Urie, you will remain."

"Thank you, sir," Smith said, and Ross echoed him. Urie remained silent; Gerard noted that while his color had faded, his shoulders had tensed significantly.

"Do you have your articles, Mr. Urie?" Gerard asked, when the other were safely out of doors, then took the rolled up parchment Urie held out.

"It says here you were apprenticed to a luthier," Gerard said, not looking up from the indenture. He vaguely recognized the name of the luthier as one belonging to an older, well-established family of middling-decent means and reputation.

"Yes, sir," Urie said. "He mainly used me as a companion for his elderly father – accompanying him to the theater and other entertainments. The old man was quite a fan of your work."

That made Gerard raise his head. "He was?"

"He was particularly fond of your account of your captivity," Urie said, a smile blooming on his face. "I had it all but memorized when he died."

"That was when you ran away?" Mikey asked from his place in the corner.

"No," Urie said, and his tone was surprisingly mild, elevating him a bit in Gerard's estimation. "I stayed on for some time, trying to find a new place in the household. "

"What was it that finally provoked you to desert?" Mikey asked between puffs of his cheroot.

"The master took a wife, and she brought her own people to the household," Brendon said. "They were rougher than us, and there were disagreements. I came out on the wrong end several times. I was not the only one, of course; there were several of us. Master wanted to be rid of us quickly, and there was only one man in the market willing to take on apprentices who were in need of . . . re-education."

"Korse," Gerard said, sitting back in his chair.

"Yes," Urie confirmed, shifting in the chair, his expression darkening. "The word in the market was that he was wicked and cruel. And his people weren't seen much in the streets, except for the – begging your pardon, sir - stone-faced bastard that drove his coach. Still, the others thought they would take their chances anyway, and make a fresh start in a new house. I chose to take the London road instead."

Gerard made a thoughtful noise and glanced at Mikey. He shrugged one shoulder, which Gerard took to mean _In for a penny, in for a pound._

"Do you have family nearby?" Gerard asked, glancing back down at the parchment.

"No," Urie said, so softly Gerard almost couldn't hear him. "My parents moved north some years ago and my siblings have almost all emigrated to the colonies."

"All right," Gerard said, and made some notations on the parchment in front of him. "The terms of your apprenticeship have been fulfilled. You may leave, if you please, or you may remain here, if that would suit you, or if you would as soon join your brothers and sisters in the new world, there are likely to be berths on _Black Parade_ on her next voyage."

Urie's mouth actually dropped open in surprise. It was quite comical, and Gerard had to work hard not to laugh at him.

"If you choose to remain here a place will be found for you among the crew, since we are currently short-handed. If you do leave, I must urge you to use caution in seeking your fortune on the public roads," Gerard said. "The press are keen to pounce on the unwary, and the careless often find themselves at sea and subject to His Majesty's will."

"I'll stay," Brendon said, then coughed and repeated himself in a more firm voice. "Thank you, sir."

"Smashing," Gerard said, finally permitting himself a smile. "You can report to Mr. Toro, he will know where your talents may be best applied. Good afternoon. Mr. Urie."

Urie stood up, his face still a little loose with shock, but he managed a competent bow before he left the room.

 

**

  
_Things continue well here_ , Gerard wrote. _Mr. Walker has coaxed another week out of the roses, and I am told we may expect a bumper crop of cabbage and carrots. I am also informed that there is a family of mice in the barn, though a cat has been dispatched to address the situation._  


He paused and chewed briefly on the top of his quill. He really had no idea what one talked about when corresponding with ladies who were not pirates. He didn't want to offend Miss Ballato, but he didn't want to bore her to tears, either. He was still considering the possibilities when he heard a sharp knock on his door that could only be Mr. Toro.

"Come," he called out, and set the letter aside.

Toro stepped over the threshold with such a fierce expression that Gerard rose to his feet, his hand sliding uselessly over where his sword would be, were they at sea.

"Are we attacked?" Gerard asked, when Toro made no comment. 

He hadn't heard horses, but then he had been quite distracted. And Korse was known for his stealth.

"No," Toro said. "Though the kitchen is ready for either battle or the Admiral, for Mr. Smith has prevailed upon Mr. Iero to instruct him in the art of holystoning the decks, and has been practicing it twice per day. And Mr. Conrad reports Mr. Ross has groomed all of the horses within an inch of their lives – even Party Poison has submitted to having ribbons braided into his mane – and that Mr. Smith has been meticulous there as well. The stalls are practically sparkling."

"Ribbons?" Gerard repeated weakly. Party Poison was a fine horse, but both stubborn and sneaky, and prone to using his teeth to settle disputes in his favor. "Does the boy still have all of his fingers?"

"Yes, unless he's since sliced them off whilst peeling the apples Mr. Smith gathered early this morning," Toro said, and then there was a long silence.

"Thank you for that intelligence, Mr. Toro," Gerard murmured. "I'll see them now, if they can be spared."

"Of course, sir," Toro said, then executed a brief bow before leaving the room.

Gerard sat down with a soft _thump_ and retrieved his letter. What he really wanted to write was _When can I see you again?_ but of course that was impossibly forward. He managed a few more lines about an especially fine pig he had lately seen in town before the faint jingling of Belle's harness in the corridor alerted him that visitors were imminent.

When he looked up Mr. Smith was in the doorway with Mr. Ross behind him, and they both looked pale and anxious. When they came in he noted Mr. Ross was limping more than usual, and there was a bandage on his bad hand.

"Sit down, gentlemen," he said, and they obeyed. 

Belle flopped between them and emitted a pointed canine noise that caused Mr. Ross to become even paler. Gerard tapped his fingers on his desk, not quite sure where to begin. Sailors were not prone to self-mortification, even when justly chastened.

"Mr. Toro reports that you have completed your penance quite thoroughly," he finally said. "I am satisfied with your contrition, and would be pleased for you to return to your regular duties."

Gerard waited, watching their faces, to see if he would have to be more explicit. He was gratified when he saw comprehension dawn in Smith's eyes almost immediately.

"Thank you, sir," Smith said, and Gerard could see his shoulders loosening with relief, even while Ross seemed suspicious.

Gerard nodded. "That was all. You may return to your duties. Good evening, gentlemen."

They murmured additional thanks, then made their way out of his office. Gerard waited until he was sure they were snug in the kitchen before pulling his coat on, stuffing his pencils into his pockets and going out to the barn to inspect his horse. He had a suspicion Miss Ballato might enjoy a portrait of the animal rigged out in such a rare style.

**

"Good morning, brother," Mikey said, and stepped forward to peer over Gerard's shoulder at the engraving of the beribboned Party Poison that he was fitting into the press. "What are you – did I miss an order from the farrier?"

"No, it is a private commission," Gerard said, trying to sound as noncommittal as possible. 

He could tell by Mikey's smirk that he had failed, and miserably so. 

"I have decided I must invite Miss Ivarsson and the _Cobras_ to Wolfhame," Gerard continued quickly, hoping to distract him. "It is only right that return her hospitality."

Mikey made a thoughtful noise. "And it will be easier to rehearse with all of you under one roof."

"The ball is only three weeks away," Gerard muttered. "I will send her a note this afternoon."

"Has she yet received an invitation?" Mikey asked, lowering himself onto a nearby stool.

"What do your little birds tell you?" Gerard asked, glancing briefly at the bundle of letters in Mikey's hand.

"They have not recently been to that part of the forest," Mikey said, a hint of steel under the mildness of his tone. "Though they do report that he – and it – are a topic of conversation among fashionable people."

"And what do the fashionable people have to say?" Gerard asked, abandoning the engraving for the moment.

"They find him quite dashing," Mikey said. "They are impressed by the quality of his household and the obedience of his servants."

Gerard _hmmph_ 'd softly, and Mikey stretched out his long legs. "Is there word from London?"

"Bryar reports that there are rumors of a fine gentleman that matches Korse's description taking rooms in Mayfair," Gerard said. "And the waterfront is a-stir at the possibility he may seek a ship, and a crew."

Mikey did not make any reply to that comment, and Gerard returned to the business of setting his engraving.

**

"Urie," Toro called out one night when Brendon was polishing silver in the kitchen after the others had retired for the evening. "Come here and take Mr. Way his tea."

Brendon stowed his rag and moved to obey. The door was open when he got to the Captain's study, and he could hear the familiar noise of a pen scratching over paper. He coughed loudly to announce himself and was soon called inside. Brendon set the tray down, noting as he did so that even with the fire that was burning merrily in the fireplace Captain Way was hunched in his dressing gown looking cold and miserable.

"Mr. Toro sent up some fresh biscuits," Brendon said, moving the plate to the captain's desk.

"Give him my compliments," the captain said, scrubbing at his face with one hand. "Thank you, Mr. Urie."

Brendon paused at the top of the stairs, then walked down the corridor to the captain's bedroom. The fire, lit several hours earlier, had burned down to nothing and the bed was cold. When he had the fire going, he got a hot water bottle from the kitchen and wrapped up in his warmest things, then went and lay down in the captain's bed. 

The first night Brendon slipped away as soon as he judged the sheets suitably prepared, but he returned the following evening, and the one after, until it became a part of his regular duties. One night, Brendon grew too comfortable at his post and fell asleep curled up under the Captain's covers.

**

"Miss Ivarsson's codes are devilishly difficult," Gerard said, then stopped to frown at the door when he realized it was already ajar.

"Have you tried using _Pamela_ as a cipher?" Mikey asked from behind him. "She did threaten me with that one time."

"No," Gerard said, absently; most of his attention was on his bed, specifically, the person-shaped lump in the center of it. 

Mikey ducked around him and walked around the bed, his wary expression giving way to one of both amusement and concern.

"It's Mr. Urie," Mikey whispered, and Gerard suppressed a groan. 

Mikey leaned forward and peeled back the edge of the coverlet gingerly, though once he had gotten a look his expression turned puzzled.

"What is it?" Gerard hissed.

"He's fully dressed," Mikey replied. "And clutching a hot water bottle."

Gerard blinked a couple of times, and finally sat down in a nearby chair.

"Perhaps he mistook it for his own?" Gerard offered, when the silence grew loud.

"If that is the case I'll send for McCoy now, because he would have to be raving to do so," Mikey said, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. "He looks well enough."

Urie sighed and shifted in his sleep, and Mikey hastily got to his feet, straightening his jacket just as Urie opened his eyes. The transformation from sleepy contentment to horrified embarrassment was so fast it would have been humorous under other circumstances.

"Are you all right, Mr. Urie?" Mikey asked.

"I'm fine, sir," Urie replied, a tide of red moving slowly up his neck and face. "I – I have been neglectful of my duties, I do apologize."

"It is long past time for your watch to be over, Mr. Urie," Gerard said quickly. "But what brings you to my bed?"

"I –" Urie paused to press his fingers against his eyes, then continued in a wry, shamefaced tone. "The wind has been very cold these last few weeks, and since you have barred dogs from the room I thought a bit of extra warmth would be welcome."

"Mr. Urie," Gerard said, a terrible suspicion dawning. "How long have you been warming my bed in this unorthodox manner?"

Urie sighed and wriggled off the bed, wincing a little as his bare feet touched the cold floor.

"A week or two, sir. Not longer than a fortnight." His shoulders tightened a fraction.

Gerard glanced at Mikey, who was regarding Brendon with undisguised astonishment.

"I thought it _was_ a dog," Gerard explained, when Mikey looked at him. "Belle, perhaps, or Susan, taking liberties."

"I do apologize, sir," Brendon said, studying his toes. "I shall be more attentive to the time in future."

"Mr. Urie," Gerard began, then paused briefly to collect his thoughts. "You will confine yourself to preparing a hot water bottle, please. Or two, if you judge it appropriate."

Urie raised his head, and Gerard saw immediately that his embarrassment had been replaced with anxiety, and perhaps a little bit of hurt.

"I admire the sentiment, Mr. Urie, and I have appreciated the extra warmth," Gerard said. "I am not angry with you. But I find that kind of service deeply unsettling, and there are other tasks which would benefit from your attention."

"Yes, sir," Urie murmured, though he didn't sound entirely convinced.

Gerard made a mental note to have a word with Toro, to see if he could explain, and perhaps smooth over any remaining troubles.

**

"Mr. Urie, I must ask you to leave the family portraits unmolested from now on," Toro said, his voice pitched loud to be heard over the muted clanging of the evening meal. "We let the dust settle on Aloysious Way on purpose, for his phiz gives us all the horrors."

Brendon stared at him for a minute – he had found Wolfhame to be quite an irregular household, and himself often on the wrong foot - then took a cue from Mr. Iero's amused expression and ventured a smile. "Of course, sir."

"Though you have done very well restoring the carpets to their full glory," Toro continued, his mock-stern expression softening.

"Thank you, sir," Brendon said, hiding a smile in his cup of beer, the knot of anxiety in his stomach easing slightly.

For while Wolfhame was an irregular household, it was also a pleasant one, and Brendon had no desire to leave it. He was, however, periodically at a loss regarding his place in it. Both the captain and his brother were young and vital, and had no particular need for a companion. Mr. Ross, on the other hand, nervous as a soldier fresh from the front, almost certainly did, but all of Brendon's overtures in that department thus far had been unsubtly rebuffed.

After the Bed Incident, as Brendon thought of it, he had confined himself to the kitchen, where Mr. Toro had received him amiably. But after a fortnight Brendon grew weary of the daily tedium of peeling and slicing and scrubbing pots, and often found himself underfoot and in the way. On Iero's advice he had spoken to Toro and begged leave to declare himself the butler, and to his pleased surprise Toro had readily agreed. 

Brendon had immediately set himself the task of restoring order to the public areas of the house. He had scrubbed ancient coal out of fireplaces, dusted an astonishing variety of nick-nacks, wiped down walls coated with what looked like decades of grime, and a dozen other domestic tasks that had been left to fall by the wayside. 

"The Captain will be entertaining again in no time," Iero said, snagging a piece of corn bread with one hand.

"Does he do that often?" Spencer inquired, pausing in the middle of slicing his meat to regard Iero with alarm. Ryan, sitting next to him, first went very still, and then set his mug down carefully.

"Not since the Lady passed," Toro said. "Though he does mention it in passing, now and again."

"Usually at Christmas," Iero supplied. "But only as a fancy, nothing more."

Brendon made a thoughtful noise, and then Toro asked Walker about the state of the summer roses, and the conversation moved on.

**

"Ahoy the house!" someone called out, and it was not a familiar voice. Ryan crept to his window and peered out at the rear courtyard. 

Iero's dark head and narrow shoulders were already extended out a lower window; he was speaking to a tall, slender man dressed in brilliantly colored pantaloons, a heavy brocade coat, and a large hat embellished with a dramatic white feather.

There was a large carriage behind them, and as they spoke the door opened, and three more people emerged. One lady, dark haired, wearing a low cut and richly embroidered blue brocade gown, two fair gentlemen in sober black frock coats. A third fair gentleman – a boy, really – was perched on top of the carriage, holding the horses in check. After a moment a fourth person emerged: a blonde lady, but dressed in pantaloons and a trim frock coat.

Ryan pulled back and climbed on to the bed, anxious at the prospect of more people in the house, and doubly so as they were clearly pirates. Law abiding persons did not go about in public in those sorts of outfits. Meanwhile he could hear footsteps in the corridor, both heavy (possibly Toro) and light (almost certainly Brendon), and the muffled sounds of voices and slamming doors. Ryan slid off the bed long enough to lock the door, then beat a hasty retreat under the covers, where he stayed until Spencer came up and insisted he come down and meet their guests.

**

"Urie!" Saporta bellowed, opening the kitchen door with a tremendous bang. "Is there any more grog? We have emptied our last barrel."

"Yes, sir," Brendon said. "In the scullery. I'll bring one out directly."

"Good man," Saporta said, this time at a slightly lower volume. "We could do with some additional provisions as well, this business of speechifying is hungry work."

Before Brendon could comment, Saporta stalked forward, shook a dagger out of his sleeve and stuck it into a nearby hunk of cheese. On the other side of the table, Spencer's already wide eyes grew impossibly larger, and Ryan seemed on the verge of vanishing under the table. Then there was a thud, and behind Saporta, the door to the kitchen swung wide but didn't open all the way and the dull roar of raised voices and laughter spilled in from the parlor.

"Of course, Captain Saporta," Brendon said. "I'll bring a tray through with the grog."

Saporta grinned hugely, took a bite of the cheese, and strode out again. The door closed behind him with another almighty bang, and Ryan twitched so violently he knocked an apple off the table. 

Brendon scooped it up and added it to the pile stacked between them on the table. When he turned to go to the scullery he heard a chair scrape back, and saw Spencer rising to follow him out of the corner of his eye.

"They are a thirsty crew," Brendon observed, as the silence between them grew heavy. 

Spencer hummed his agreement but made no further comment as they rolled the barrel out and closer to the door. Brendon made up a tray of bread, meats and cheeses as he had promised, and then the two of them ventured into the parlor.

The scene that greeted them there was quite spectacular: Captain Way was standing on the piano bench, one arm in the air, declaiming something about _the weakest among us deserve better than torment_ , while Captain Saporta and Miss Ivarsson were engaged in a fast-moving swordfight. The rest of the _Cobras_ were practicing their dance steps, while Mr. Way and Mr. Iero were industriously sewing while also trading lines with each other.

Brendon set the tray on top of the empty barrel of grog while Spencer manipulated the new one into place next to it.

"Mr. Smith!" Miss Asher called out, and Mr. Suarez danced her over to where they were standing. "Mr. Smith, come and dance with me, I require greater variety than these two oafs."

Mr. Suarez made a face of mock offense, while Mr. Blackinton – whom Brendon had, puzzlingly, also heard the others call Mr. Ripley – ignored her in favor of spearing several pieces of meat with his dagger.

Meanwhile, Miss Asher was attempting to waltz with Spencer. It took several attempts, but they did finally find the proper rhythm. After two circuits of the room she turned him loose, pink-cheeked and sweaty from the exertion, and fell upon the provisions.

He moved quickly to get clear of the group, and after a moment more Brendon followed him into the kitchen.

 

**

Spencer waited until the house had been fully quiet for at least an hour before he got out of bed. He slid carefully out of the far side, so as to not disturb Brendon on the trundle, then grabbed the corners of the sheet Ryan was laying on and tugged after him. 

Thanks to a little bit of extra laudanum in his last cup of tea – Spencer felt bad, drugging him, but not enough to not to do it – Ryan barely stirred as Spencer wrapped him securely in a blanket, then carried him out of the room and up the set of stairs at the far end of the hall, and then up a second, much narrower set to the attic, where a nest of ragged blankets and freshly-washed but still stained sheets were waiting.

Spencer lingered another five minutes before descending, listening carefully to the house. When he was satisfied no-one else was stirring, he went back for Brendon. Once they were settled, Spencer sat down to keep watch. Sleep tugged at him – he had had a very long couple of days, between the extra people for meals and Ryan's decimated nerves – but he pinched himself regularly, and stayed awake until dawn, when he could demand Brendon relieve him.

**

"Spencer," Brendon said, and Spencer could hear both irritation and disbelief in his tone. "What – why are we in the attic? The Captains will be wanting their breakfast any minute now, and – "

"No," Spencer said. "We're safer up here."

Brendon rubbed his eyes furiously and frowned. "Safe from what? Having to do extra washing-up?"

"They'll get bored eventually," Spencer said, crossing his arms and glaring, though the effect was ruined somewhat when he yawned. "And then –"

"Spencer, they are not going to use us for entertainment," Brendon said, struggling to keep his tone even. "Now –"

"No," Spencer growled, lunging forward as Brendon struggled upwards. 

The ensuing tussle led to Brendon falling down, which was enough to startle Ryan awake. Calming him down afterwards took some time, and Brendon concluded it would be best to wait for both of them to go back to sleep. Eventually they did drift off, Spencer curled around Ryan, and Brendon made his escape.

**

"The horses are all here, sir," Toro said. "So are the donkeys. And I cannot imagine they left on foot."

Gerard picked up his tea and drank it largely out of habit, and for something to do with his hands. The household had been somewhat unsettled, in the last few days, and the sudden disappearance of such a large number of his crew was greatly distressing.

"There were no fresh tracks in the lane when I went up to town this morning," Captain Saporta chimed in from behind his tea. 

"They're in the attic," Urie said from the doorway, and every head at the table swiveled to stare at him.

Gerard stood up with such speed that his chair rocked backwards and seemed to be in danger of falling over.

"Mr. Urie," he said, not sure even as he spoke if he were relieved or enraged.

"My apologies for my tardiness, sir," Urie said. "Mr. Smith is . . . unwell, I think. He feels surrounded, and has retreated to what he thinks of as a place of safety."

"Surrounded?" half the table echoed, their voices both baffled and amused.

"He – they are very frightened, and will not listen when I try to reason with them," Brendon continued, swallowing carefully. "They are, I think, haunted by experience."

"I am a veteran of Korse's mercies as well," Miss Ivarsson said, standing up slowly. "I will go and speak to them, perhaps that will help." 

The low hum of amused voices faded as she moved. Brendon glanced at the Captain, not quite sure what to do.

"Thank you, Miss Ivarsson," Gerard said, sitting back down in his chair, and nodding at Brendon.

**

Spencer's first warning that they were being invaded was the sharp creaking of the stairs. He scrabbled in the blankets until he found the sword Ryan had appropriated from one of the old trunks in the corner and stood up. 

"What -?" Ryan hissed from deep in his nest of blankets; Spencer shushed him and tightened his grip on the sword.

"Mr. Smith?" their visitor called out, and Spencer was surprised when the voice was female. "It is Miss Ivarsson, may I come closer?"

"No," Ryan said softly, sitting up on his knees.

"Yes," Spencer replied, partially because he knew she was going to come up whether they liked it or not, and partially because she had smiled at him very sweetly once, not long after they had arrived.

"Brendon said she is kind," Spencer explained to Ryan's betrayed expression. 

"Brendon also said she is the most fearsome pirate among them," Ryan whispered, and then the door opened slowly, revealing one slender figure on the threshold, and the shadow of another on the wall of the stairs.

"Hello, gentlemen," she said, her expression pleasant even after she caught sight of the sword in Spencer' hand.

"Mr. Urie has reported you are most distressed by our revels," she said, smoothing her trews down with her hands.

"Yes ma'am," Spencer murmured, ducking his head. He felt quite ridiculous all of a sudden, as well as small and young. 

"I must apologize for disturbing the peace of the household," she continued, taking a step forward. "We are sometimes careless in our – enthusiasm."

Spencer just stared at her, and suddenly wondered if he were wandering in his wits, or dreaming. He could feel the weight of the sword in his hand and Ryan's solid warmth against his leg, but those were not reliable indicators either way. 

She took another step forward, and another, the dim light in the attic sliding over her delicate features as she moved.

"I have great sympathy for your distress," she murmured. "I have been Korse's prisoner as well. It was some time before I could endure the company of my fellows again, once I had escaped."

Spencer blinked at her. "Escaped?" he repeated.

"Aye," she said, a grin spreading across her face. "And I carried his eye away with me, as a prize."

"Truly?" Ryan asked, inching forward a little bit.

"Aye, truly," Ivarsson said, her grin broadening. "Perhaps you would like to hear the story? I am told it goes well with tea and biscuits."

Spencer could feel Ryan tensing next to him, even as he struggled to respond. Now that he had had some sleep, the foolishness of his plan was coming home to roost, and he was a little bit ashamed of the whole affair. 

"It will be all right," Miss Ivarsson whispered, taking one more slow step forward in order to extract the sword from Spencer's grip. "Captain Way is a good man, the first one I would sail with, once I felt recovered."

Spencer let the weapon go easily, blinking hard against the sudden stinging in his eyes. She slid it into the leather scabbard on her hip, then further surprised him by drawing him into a hug, and holding him carefully until he could compose himself. When she did finally release him she leaned over to take Ryan's good hand, and helped him up. 

"Come," she said, guiding Ryan free of the nest of blankets. "Mr. Toro has doubtless got the kettle on already."

Spencer took a steadying breath, and followed them down the stairs.

**

Mikey pushed the door to the study open slowly. As he expected, he found his brother staring at a blank piece of paper, one hand clutching his hair. He coughed quietly, and Gerard raised his head. 

"Tea?" Mikey asked, holding out a mug, and Gerard took it with an expression of relief.

"Miss Ivarsson has made an inquiry," Mikey said, when his cup was nearly empty. 

Gerard put his mug down on his desk and sat back in his chair, his lips pressed together in a firm line. Nonetheless Mikey pressed on.

"She asked if now might be the time to assign Mr. Ross duties in the shop, where it is quieter," Mikey said, being careful to keep his tone a neutral as possible. 

"And Mr. Smith?" Gerard asked, leaning forward and resting his arms on his desk. "There's hardly enough work for two of them in the shop."

"Mr. Walker felt he could be profitably occupied in the garden, and it is Mr. Urie's opinion that he might be more at his ease so long as Mr. Ross were not unduly disturbed."

Mikey drank the rest of his tea, and waited.

"You may advise them of their new orders," Gerard said after a long, thoughtful silence. 

"Thank you, sir," Mikey murmured, and departed.

**

When they arrived at the shop the next morning, Captain Way gave Ryan a tour, pausing several times to give the history of individual presses and commentary on customers. Ryan's knee soon began to ache, and he was relieved to finally be shown to his appointed place, and then left in peace to address packages, organize orders, and open books for customers.

Some time later, Ryan heard the door creak open and glanced up. The newcomer was a tall man wrapped up against the rain. Ryan watched him for a moment, then went back to slicing through the folds of the pages of the book in front of him. Then the low hum of conversation in the shop abruptly stopped. When Ryan raised his head to investigate, he found the face that haunted his nightmares looking back at him.

"Mr. Ross," Korse said, his eyebrows bouncing upwards. "Fancy meeting you here."

Ryan could barely hear anything over the sound of the blood roaring in his ears, but he could feel the solid weight of the book knife in his hand. Korse flipped his cloak over his shoulder, revealing both his shirt and a sliver of bare skin. Ryan tightened his grip on the knife and climbed onto the counter. 

Korse started laughing; a nearby child started screaming. The noise jolted Belle awake and into a frenzy of barking, which brought Iero and both Ways out from the back at a run.

Ryan was in the act of swinging his legs around when Mr. Way grabbed his shirt with both hands. Ryan tried to wriggle free but Way's grip was firm, and he was trapped. Meanwhile Iero darted forward to grab Belle's collar and try to haul her away. He was tiny, though, and she was putting up a fight. 

"How precious, Captain Way, coming to the defense of your catamite, " Korse said, a lazy smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "And your brother as well. Do you share him? He does enjoy a crowd, don't you, Mr. Ross?"

Ryan growled low in his throat and struggled some more against Way's grasp, but it was no use, he was held fast. Meanwhile, Iero won his battle with Belle, and disappeared briefly in the course of confining her into the back room.

"You will apologize to Mr. Ross, and then you will get out of my shop," the captain said, a note of steel in his voice that Ryan had never heard before.

"Apologize? To a bed-warmer? Have you been at the bottle already this morning, Captain?" Korses said, widening his eyes with mock concern. 

"Then you will choose your weapon and meet me at dawn tomorrow," the captain said. "Have your second call upon my brother."

Korse's eyes widened in genuine surprise just as Ryan finally got free of Mr. Way and jumped down off the counter. But he only managed one step forward before Iero caught him about the waist and swung him away.

"No," Iero hissed at Ryan, squeezing him into submission and dragging him towards the back room at the same time. "Let the Captain manage him."

Ryan growled again, but Iero was too strong. He could also hear Mr. Way ordering everyone out amid promises to re-open in an hour. Iero dropped him on a chair at the same time that the Ways came through the door from the shop.

"You are all right?" the Captain asked, crouching down in front of Ryan and carefully prying the knife from his fingers.

"Yes," Ryan mumbled, already starting to shake with leftover adrenaline. 

A moment later he felt Belle's familiar warmth against his side, and her tongue on his face. He petted her head, struggling not to give in and cling to her, and finally persuaded her to lie at his feet.

"Mr. Iero will take you home," Mr. Way said, taking the knife when the captain handed it to him. "Iero, you may take Snake Child. Go through the fields, Korse is likely to be on the road. Bring Mr. Urie back with you if Mr. Toro can spare him."

"Yes, sir, " Iero said, and hauled Ryan to his feet.

The journey was a blur punctuated by Iero's muffled curses and sudden shocks as Snake Child soared over fences. When they finally stopped, they were in the back courtyard, and Spencer was waiting for them, stripped to the waist after a morning in the garden. Ryan didn't so much dismount as fall off the horse, but Spencer caught him easily before he hit the groud. Ryan curled against him, only dimly aware of Iero hollering for Brendon amid the clatter of the horse dancing anxiously on the bricks and Belle's heavy panting.

"What happened?" Spencer whispered, then repeated, louder, for Iero's benefit, when Ryan could not answer him.

"Korse," Iero said, and Spencer's grip on Ryan tightened so much Ryan almost couldn't breathe. "There's to be a duel."

"A what?" Brendon and Mr. Toro chorused, the kitchen door slamming behind them.

"Mr. Urie, you're needed at the shop, now come, quickly, and I'll explain on the way," Iero said, and there was more clattering of hooves. "Mr. Toro, we will be receiving callers this evening, and the parlour should be readied for them."

"I will see to it right away, " Mr. Toro said, and the kitchen door banged shut again. 

Ryan raised his head from Spencer's chest just in time to see Brendon haul himself up behind Iero, and Iero turn the horse towards town.

"Ryan," Spencer whispered, when horse and riders were a blur in the distance, but Ryan still could not speak. 

Spencer loosened his grip, putting some air between them, and Ryan tried to concentrate on his breathing. He had done a terrible thing, and he knew it and now – now there was going to be a duel. If the Captain were to lose – Ryan could not even form the thought.

After another minute Spencer lifted Ryan up and took him to his room, Belle following closely behind them. Ryan was quiet while Spencer stripped him out of his clothes and checked him for injuries, though he was shaking so violently his teeth were chattering. At some point Mr. Toro came in with a hot water bottle and a calming drought, and Ryan took them both without protest. Finally Spencer put him on the bed. Belle climbed up and tool her usual place at Ryan's feet. Spencer hovered for a moment, as if he were contemplating leaving, and Ryan grabbed his wrist with both hands.

"All right," Spencer murmured, and climbed up next to him.

When he lay down Ryan began to talk, confessing his indiscretion in rushed, jumbled sentences. But he could tell from Spencer's breathing that he understood.

"It will be all right," Spencer said firmly when he finished, and Ryan curled up as tight as he could and prayed that that were true.

**

"Pistols at dawn," Mikey reported. "Mr. Toro is cleaning the Wogdons now."

Gerard made a noise of acknowledgment, but didn't turn away from the window. Part of him wished there were ships that could be sailed on land, so he might fire a broadside at the man and be done with it. When he did turn around Mikey was sitting at the table, legs crossed casually, belying the narrow set of his mouth.

"And Mr. Ross?" Gerard asked, deliberately avoiding the questions and the poorly-hidden anxiety in Mikey's gaze.

"Sleeping," Mikey said. "Mr. Smith is with him and will remain so for the evening."

Gerard nodded, then tugged at his hair. It did not relieve his internal turmoil one iota.

"You will have one shot," Mikey said, flatly. "Aim for his heart."

Gerard dropped his hands and sighed. Mikey straightened in his chair and arched one eyebrow.

"I should have run him through in Tortuga when I had the chance," Gerard muttered. 

Mikey hummed his agreement and pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket. "Faro?"

"All right," Gerard said, and joined him at the table.

**

Spencer spent the evening lying very still and watching shadows dance across the ceiling. He crept out of the room as soon as he heard Iero stirring, moving carefully so as not to wake Ryan, and went down to the kitchen. Mr. Toro acknowledged him with a glance and a cup of coffee. The Ways arrived soon afterwards, both rigged out in black frock coats, breeches and boots. Mr. Way held a small wooden box in one arm, which Spencer supposed must be the guns.

"Godspeed, sir," Mr. Toro said, when the they had finished their breakfast and risen from the table.

The Captain inclined his head and smiled tightly, then followed his brother out of the room. Spencer glanced at Mr. Toro, and waited for his nod before hurrying after them. They took the carriage, and Spencer climbed up and sat next to Iero. He wondered, briefly, if he should have woken Ryan, but the sight of Korse and his carriage convinced him he had been right to leave Ryan in peace. Just the sight of the gilt "K" on the door made Spencer's stomach roll and his skin crawl.

Mr. Iero brought the horses to a halt. The Ways exited the carriage. The Captain and Korse walked towards each other and bowed stiffly, then, when Mr. Way gave the word, counted off ten paces. Mr. Way opened the gun box, and the captain retrieved one of the pistols. It was a plain, ugly weapon, and Spencer swallowed carefully. On the other side, Korse was holding a more carefully decorated piece, and smirking.

"On my mark," Mr. Way said, and the last number had barely fallen from his lips when the Captain fired.

Korse jerked backwards at the shoulder and fell to the ground. His men swarmed over him, shouting. Finally one of them, a mean-faced man in a pale suit, stood up.

"He lives, barely, but he cannot shoot, and will not let his second take his place," the man said. "Victory is yours, for today."

Spencer let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Iero was scrubbing at his face, clearly wiping away tears, and so offered him a handkerchief. Iero took it with mumbled thanks.

The Captain bowed, stiffly, and the Ways returned to the carriage.

**

Ryan woke slowly, coaxed to consciousness by the scent of coffee and sweet rolls. When he opened his eyes and saw Spencer standing next to the bed, he sat up, ready to inquire as to the occasion, and then he remembered the events of – the previous day? He was not quite sure how long he had been sleeping. 

"It's done," Spencer said, before he could make any comment. "The Captain triumphed."

"Korse is dead?" Ryan asked, gripping the blankets to hide the way his hands were shaking.

"No," the captain said from the doorway, and Ryan noted there was genuine surprise on Spencer's face at the interruption. "Or, I should say, not yet. He took a wound that may be mortal."

For a moment Ryan was too stunned to speak. By the time he found his voice the captain was at his bedside. He looked rumpled – more so than usual – but otherwise intact.

Ryan abandoned everything he had ever been taught and threw himself into the Captains arms to cling to his neck. The captain staggered at first, but recovered quickly, and further surprised Ryan by holding him close and murmuring soothing phrases in his ear.

"Hush," the captain said, when Ryan finally released him, and then tried to apologize for his gross breach of civilized behavior. "Now, I must tell you, I have just had a note from Miss Ballato, she has invited us to visit her at her uncle's villa in Tuscany. It is well-timed - we leave on Saturday, on the first tide. Mr. Toro and Mr. Iero will help you pack."

"Thank you, sir," Spencer said, when it became clear Ryan was once again too overcome to speak.

"We shall make sailors of you yet," the Captain said, his grin loosening. "Good evening gentlemen."


End file.
